Crawling
by DSLeo
Summary: AU. "Partings" goes very differently, and Lorelai isn't the only Gilmore who loses her man. T for language/situations. Genre: Angst/Romance/Family (It's finished!)
1. Chapter 1

Crawling

Disclaimer: Will never be mine, nor will any money.

Summary: AU. "Partings" goes very differently, and Lorelai isn't the only Gilmore who loses her man. T for language/situations

Genre: Angst/Romance/Family

Author Note: This originally was meant to be a fic that began right after "Vineyard Valentine" and found the Ls both out of their comfort zones. I wrote 20,000 words of that, couldn't get anywhere, started over. And this monster was born. It is completed.

A lot of you will hate what I've done. That's okay. I hate it.

Shout-out to PurryCat, who always offers me advice and a sounding board.

Shout-out to my husband, who read this for "authentic guy-ness".

GG GG GG

CHAPTER ONE

First, there came avoidance. This was not denial. Lorelai Gilmore was long past denial. She was even past anger and bargaining. Acceptance was impossible. Therefore, she avoided.

Such the stages of Lorelai's pre-emptive grief.

Each day, however, was another wound, and she finally confronted Luke in public, knowing he'd hate it, and hating it herself. Simply, she had to act before it was too late. She had to _know_.

She clung to that, listening to Luke rant about all he had to do besides be with her, be her fiancé, be her friend, be anything to her. She was still in the magical time _before too late_.

It ended when she said it was now or never, and Luke reared away from her as if she'd thrown acid on him. Stammering, Lorelai hastened to explain, and it was her luck (perennially bad) that for that one moment, everyone and everything in the town square was perfectly silent. "Luke, it's now or never, I'm _pregnant_!"

Everyone, including Lorelai, held a breath against Luke's response.

Red-faced and dark-eyed, he snarled, "Who's the lucky guy?"

Lorelai's mouth dropped open. No sound emerged, for once.

Luke Danes was a stranger to her.

He knew every dark sad thought to cross her mind. She had no idea who he was. And, she recognized, she might never have.

"I have to go," said Lorelai, and stumbled away. She'd wanted to tell him first, in private, but how? Then… After dinner at her parents' house… There was Chris, goofing as always, and it only reminded her how different he and Luke were, and how desperate she felt. And now she'd blurted it in public, which was horrifying enough, without Luke's reaction.

 _Who's the lucky guy?_

A tiny voice of reason in her skull, which sounded like Sookie and Rory, reminded her that he'd been left and left and left again by Rachel. He'd been cheated on by Nicole. He had scars. He had concerns.

Lorelai knew that. She'd tried to erase all mention of Christopher to the point that she'd ended up looking more guilty than if she'd just told Luke up front. It wasn't a mistake of malice, but of trying too hard, and that was okay. Lorelai corrected herself. She had _thought_ it was okay. That they had learned. That they'd talked it out. That…

 _Who's the lucky guy?_

Reeling mentally, staggering emotionally, Lorelai walked to her jeep. She paused once, to vomit into someone's unfortunate rosebushes, then began driving. To where, she did not know. Only that she had nowhere to go. Sookie was her best friend, but Sookie was a fan of romantic happy endings, and Lorelai couldn't bear to be cheered up and told this would work itself out. She needed reality. She needed fact. She needed to find out who the hell she'd loved, or if he ever existed.

GG GG GG

Richard Gilmore was tired. Emily was ranting about Lorelai and Christopher, so disgraceful, so rude, so immature, and he wondered what she expected. Putting his daughter near Christopher inevitably brought out the inner adolescent in Lorelai. Moreover, he was quite aware that Lorelai enjoyed irritating Emily, and what better than upsetting a matchmaking attempt?

Sipping a cup of tea privately laced with brandy, Richard knew he needed to talk to Emily about it. If she worried Lorelai and Luke were unhappy, then why on earth shove Christopher under her nose _again_? She could have only one reason, but surely Emily wasn't that stubborn, that misguided, that…

The doorbell rang, interrupting before he came to the inevitable and ugly conclusion.

He groaned, but called, "I'll see who it is!" in order to forestall a tirade about the latest maid. He didn't keep track anymore. They came, they went, on a schedule almost as regular as Emily's manicures.

Emily beat him to the door. He rumbled in his chest. "I said…"

He stopped short.

Lorelai stood at their door.

Voluntarily.

Richard hadn't become wealthy (well, _wealthier_ ) by ignoring instincts. He immediately stepped forward, and asked gently, "What is it, Lorelai? You should come in, you're pale."

She came in, without a word, and walked to the living room, again without a word. She sat down on the couch, ankles nicely crossed,

Emily's hand went to her throat. Her frightened eyes begged Richard to find out what was wrong.

Emily perched opposite Lorelai. Normally, Richard didn't worry for his daughter. She was indomitable. He'd never doubted her capacity to withstand Emily, or, indeed, the world. Yet that niggling sense of trouble prodded him into taking his seat next to his daughter, and patting her hand. Years around Rory had taught him much about Lorelai. This was not the time to stand aside and let Emily handle it.

"I'm pregnant," said Lorelai tonelessly, "and it's Luke's, and I told him, and I asked him if we were getting married, because there's this baby on the way, and he asked me whose it was."

White shock flooded Richard. He liked Luke. He didn't understand the man, but he liked him. He admired prickly independence.

He did _not_ admire the pain in his daughter's dull blue eyes.

Lorelai's eyes were never dull. His daughter's eyes were _fire_.

Luke Danes put out Lorelai's fire.

"I can't breathe. I'm always crying. I'm always terrified. I feel like I can't even take a shower without it being a disaster."

Where was Lorelai's spark, verve, quick-pattering wit? This droning litany came from a stranger wearing Lorelai's face.

"It's worse and worse and I can't hold off telling him and I told him first, and he asked me who's the lucky guy, and I don't know why I'm here, I can't find a place to be, my house isn't home anymore, he made it different but he never moved in, and he's always at the diner and he won't let me near April and the last time we had sex, that's all it was, sex, and I didn't even think I could be pregnant when I missed the first time," Lorelai went on in a very Lorelai-ish ramble, minus all facial expressions and gestures. "It's the only time since the Vineyard. I'm too old to have a baby alone. First I was too young, now I'm too old, and I don't know where to be."

She fell silent. Her hands lay flat on her legs. Her eyes stared unblinking at air.

Rage began to override shock. Lorelai was broken. What Emily, Trix, Richard, Rory and life in general could not do, this Luke had done.

 _He broke my daughter_.

Then, with the discipline that had made him a formidable force in the insurance industry for forty years, Richard set that aside. Rage came later, after a strategy was devised. For the moment, he had to give Lorelai his whole-hearted support. Married or unmarried, she was going to have a child. He couldn't do it again. He couldn't only know this grandchild at holidays laced with verbal arsenic.

"Oh my God," gasped Emily. "Again. You did it _again_. Pregnant, and no intention of being with the father!"

Richard blinked hard, staring at his wife of many years. He growled a warning, "Emily. Not now."

"Well, when, then? And boozing it up at supper, no regard for that poor baby…"

Richard almost flared up, hesitated as his memory supplied information. "Lorelai, you didn't drink, did you? What, one or two sips where we could see, wasn't it?"

Lorelai nodded. She shrank, somehow. Tiny and frail. _Lorelai_ , of all people.

"I can't do this anymore," she whispered, and fear struck Richard hard.

 _This_ meant _life_. He knew it, because he'd felt the weight so often, crushing him from the inside out. Rory had kept Lorelai going, as his family had Richard, but now?

Now, Richard was afraid.

He came out of his reverie to Emily's furious, "…Irresponsibility! And no wonder he asked, you're certainly not a model of virtue!"

Richard's eyes snapped from his unresponsive daughter to his too-responsive wife. "Shut up, Emily!"

"How dare you!"

"How dare I? She is engaged to this man! A man who loves a woman doesn't treat her as he's treated her, and that was a lesson _you_ , my dear, taught me!"

"Don't raise your voice at me! I will say what I like in my own home to my own child about her reckless, careless, oh, she's _hopeless_!" With that, Emily threw up her hands, dropped them, and assumed a set-jawed glare. "She's made a mess, well, it's her mess, as she's reminded us for twenty years, and I will not offer help to have it thrown away again! I warned her about this man, I _warned_ her, and this is the thanks I get, yelled at in my own home, after she made a fool of me in front of guests!"

A sick feeling crawled up Richard's spine. He wished he'd misheard her, and knew he hadn't.

"Lorelai," he said softly, "go to the car."

"I can't drive, Dad," she said in that same dead voice. "I'm too tired and I don't know where to be."

"I'll drive. Go sit in the old Mercedes."

Obediently, Lorelai wandered to the front door.

"Taking her home?" asked Emily in a sweetly acidic voice.

"To a hotel," answered Richard with dignity.

"Don't be gone late, you know you have a golf date in the morning."

Richard went upstairs. He retrieved his car keys. He threw a few things into a bag, reflecting ruefully that Emily usually packed for him, and he'd undoubtedly missed a dozen vital items. Then he walked downstairs, ignoring Emily's shrill, "Richard? Richard, what is the meaning of this?!" until he could shut the heavy front door behind him.

He quailed, a moment, before he saw Lorelai standing lost in the driveway, huddled in a sweater despite the warm night.

"Come along, Lorelai," he said, and put a tentative hand around hers. "The car is this way."

AN: Yes, Emily and Luke are horrible, terrible, awful people that I've butchered, cannibalized, resurrected as unrecognizable zombies. Now, put down your pitchforks and torches, and understand that you can argue in favor of anyone being good/bad depending what you cherry-pick from what episodes/seasons.

GG GG GG


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: Theirs.

READER ALERT: Chapters each treat two characters, so yes, this is going to time-jump and POV-hop.

AN: I've already been hit with the OOC charges. This is a thirty-chapter-long fic, so if you already dislike it? Bail now, no harm, no foul. There are many excellent stories on this site that make Luke the ultimate hero of all virtues, and so forth. Huzzah!

GG GG GG

CHAPTER TWO

Emily Gilmore did not tolerate insults.

She re-directed them.

When Richard didn't come home for three days and nights, and neither daughter nor husband answered her calls, Emily decided enough was enough.

She marched into _that man's_ despicable diner.

It was remarkably empty. The usual charmingly eccentric ladies weren't to be seen, or heard, and Emily bit back frustration. She had counted on Miss Patty for information. The pompous Taylor Doose wasn't there, either. That odd little Kirk was, but Emily was certain the diner should be busier than this at mid-morning on a weekday. She felt a prickle of vindictive glee that it was a failing business. Emily wanted to be _right_ , and it pleased her to be so.

"You," she sniffed at Kirk. "I'll pay for that disgusting slop, but I need to speak to Luke alone. Please go away."

"Thanks," said Kirk, and ambled genially out of the diner.

Luke Danes was as she remembered. Unclean, uncouth, unacceptable.

"This is your fault," said Emily primly, sitting at the counter. "Neither Richard nor Lorelai will speak to me, and I demand to know what you…"

To her shock, the greasy man stopped scrubbing the counter and hissed, "My fault? You're the one! Marry Christopher, marry Christopher, marry Christopher, you tell her that for twenty years and now she's gonna…"

Emily blinked. The man reeked of alcohol. Not freshly consumed alcohol, which was worse.

"Run off, be with that jerk, and then she's gonna tell me…"

Emily actually shrieked. It was unladylike, undignified, and disgusted. "Dear God, you really think Lorelai cheated on you? You're off with that despicable trollop at all hours, you had no intention of marrying Lorelai, you don't allow her near your child after she's allowed you to all but claim paternity of _Rory_ , and you dare, you actually _dare_ think she is off with _Christopher_?"

Luke's bleary glare was a warning to shut up.

Nobody told Emily to shut up. That is, they did, but never successfully.

"I have no idea what psychosis scrambles that tiny little inbred brain of yours," Emily went on in her nastiest, coldest voice, the one that cowed the entire New England DAR into compliance. "You destroyed my daughter, you thick-headed fool, and now she and Richard are both ignoring me, and that is entirely _your fault_!"

Luke squinted at her. He blinked a few times. "Wait. How am I to blame for Richard growing a set?"

"You," spat Emily, "are not worth the energy required to run you down like a dog in the street. You throw accusations of infidelity, well, those who do that are far more likely to have a guilty conscience!"

"Go to hell."

"So you _are_ with that Anna person!" crowed Emily in triumph.

"No!" shouted Luke, and flung his ball cap across the diner. By luck, it hit the sign and flipped it to "Closed".

"Well, you certainly aren't with Lorelai, while she's pregnant, with _your_ child, after you lie to her, deceive her, treat her like she's worthless to you, after all that talk about loving her for _years_!" retaliated Emily, chin up and battle-heat in her blood. "Yes, when I love someone, I marry someone _else_ , it's done all the time!"

"Get out," growled Luke.

"When I'm done!"

"You're done!"

"Fix this," commanded Emily grandly. "Grovel if you must, but I will not have my husband siding with my daughter over something that is entirely _your_ doing!"

A vein in the man's forehead throbbed, then suddenly eased. He drew a long breath. "Wait. What… You saw Lorelai?"

Emily rolled her eyes. Truly, the man was dense. "She came to us Friday night, mumbling about how you got her pregnant and wouldn't marry her, and naturally I pointed out she'd ignored _my_ good judgment, and then Richard moved into a hotel and won't return my calls."

The last thing Emily expected was for Luke Danes to sit down and start to laugh a horrible, jagged laugh. Nor did she anticipate tears in his eyes or on his face.

"You need a psychiatrist," she decided coolly.

He shuddered. He pulled himself straight. He said flatly, "I need to go back and undo the last six months."

"Agreed!"

"In my head… It's like I couldn't tell what was real. There's so much going on and…"

"Life is always going on! How low _is_ your IQ?"

"Who forgives you for lying like I did? She was gonna walk away, they all do."

"And I don't blame them," inserted Emily with her very nicest smile. It turned her eyes into glittering glacial ice.

Luke ignored her, staring at his knees. "She did, didn't she. She really forgave me."

Emily groaned inwardly, and said crisply, "Yes, she did, if we could please move along to the present moment?"

"I couldn't believe it. I wouldn't. I'd never forgive that kind of lie. So why would she. But she did."

"Oh for pity's sake," sighed Emily impatiently, and stood, adjusting her purse strap on her shoulder. "Yes. She did. After which kindness, you treated her as if she'd committed a horrible crime, and then proceeded to accuse her of cheating on you. Do keep up."

His eyes flashed dangerously at her. Only for a moment, but Emily's hackles rose. She did not quite take a step away from him as he asked, "How bad?"

"Elaborate."

He stood. Emily did take a step away, telling herself it was not fear.

He retrieved his ball cap. He settled it backwards on his head. "How bad? I mean, is it gonna be twelve years before I see this kid?"

" _This kid_?" squawked Emily, stunned. "You mean, the child you're having with Lorelai? _Your_ child?"

"You didn't see how she looked at me," snapped Luke, and made his way to the door. "Like she never knew me."

"If you could say that to her, perhaps she never did."

That blow struck deep. Satisfied, Emily thanked him for holding the door for her, and reiterated, "Fix it. I won't have my marriage ruined because of _your_ failings."

She was two steps away, head high, a smile on her face, when Luke's voice sawed into her.

"Look in a mirror, lady, if you want to know why you're alone."

Emily looked over her shoulder and replied saucily, "Back at ya," before sauntering to her Mercedes to drive home to Hartford and await Richard's return.

GG GG GG

Once upon a time, Luke Danes fought hard to make a marriage work when he wasn't sure why he'd married the woman. Well, he knew why. He was drunk, lonely, far from home, and sick of feeling let down and passed by. Nicole never gave up on him. She kept pushing.

For which behavior he had more or less rejected every other woman who ever attempted to push him.

Alone, lonely, and out of beer, Luke studied himself in a mirror and concluded that maybe he had a serious problem when he couldn't lie to _himself_.

Giving in to Nicole became easier away from Stars Hollow. Giving in to _wife_ Nicole was a legal, moral obligation, part of a vow. He'd managed to dodge quite a lot with Rachel (his reflection cringed) by staying put and not making promises. He'd justified much with past girlfriends by insisting that love did not _change_ you. Love did not _push_ at you. Love left you alone, and you did as you liked, and the other person just loved you anyway, and if you liked making them happy, that was great. And if you wanted them to go away, then they'd do that. And…

Nicole had been nothing like Rachel or Lorelai. Therein lay her appeal. She was fun to make happy. Nothing he did for her or with her required that he have fun, of whatever kind, and then _not_ come home to _his_ life. Nicole had been little vacations, small adventures, too busy to impose on him, and then… The cruise. That stupid cruise. He'd known he shouldn't go. Throwing the cruise in Lorelai's face had been… Been… What had it been? If she'd said "Don't go," he'd have told her he'd consider her advice, by saying, "Maybe." After all… After all…

His reflection twisted.

Love came to you. That was common sense (his reflection eased). You didn't go chasing it or making it.

And that had him back where he started, yet again. Alone, lonely, out of beer, unable to shave because his hands kept shaking.

The single-turned-double bed. The diner apartment. The diner itself. The flannel shirts. The backwards ball cap that he should've given up when he was 20. All of that earned him what? Women who didn't think he'd want to know if he was a father (except Lorelai, his reflection pointed out, by mouthing the words _except Lorelai_ ) and who didn't outlast his stubbornness ( _except Lorelai_ ) and…

He bent, hands clutching the cold porcelain sink, so he could not see his reflection.

He'd asked out women. Except Lorelai.

Why was she the exception?

Because…

Because…

The handle of his razor snapped in his palm. He examined the pieces, and threw them away. He turned off the light, went to the bed in the next room, sat down on it, and remembered that he had bought the double bed because of Lorelai.

"She wanted me with Rachel," he said.

 _She didn't know_ , answered that nagging little Other-Luke that carved chuppahs and saved dogs and all the other things that Luke found despicably soft, sentimental, and ridiculous.

 _Except Lorelai…_

"She was with Rory's dad."

 _Then she found out he was basically two-timing Sherry and how much of that was loneliness and how much was really love? Rachel came back, no questions asked in this apartment, nope, not one, and it'd been years, hell, she could've had a weird disease and I'd only have known when…_

"Shut up!" Luke told that Other-Luke. It was the one that held much in common with Liz, and their dead mother, and rainbows, and hope, and could work and play well with others.

"Crap," he said to the room in general. "I sound like a teenager."

His stomach heaved. He hadn't been able to digest anything much but beer for a few days. Then he kept down toast, too. He was all the way up to egg whites on toast, and ginger ale, but none of it wanted to remain in his system.

Miss Patty had done it. Snapped him into this state, so to speak. He'd never known the woman could be infuriated. She'd nearly slapped him, he was sure, right there on the street not two minutes after Lorelai walked away. Her words were bouncing around in his head (helped along by that Other-Luke inside, he was positive) like a rogue hockey puck.

 _How could you?!_

That summed up too much.

" _Who's the lucky guy?"_

He punched his own leg. The left one. The right one already had several bruises.

It never stopped that inner nag, the voice that told him he'd let his fears run his life, but he kept trying. Someday, that stupid Other-Luke-that-was-like-Liz-and-Mom had to shut up. It had to.

"I can't breathe," he said aloud.

 _You have to breathe. April._

He'd hated Lorelai for freaking out about Jess, at Jess, after Rory's broken arm. A nice excuse for why not to ask her out. She'd picked on his family. Therefore, Lorelai sucked. And if she didn't see he loved her from afar, that was on her. It wasn't on _him_.

Or maybe it was.

Okay, he should have said to her after the Chris-Sherry-whole-package thing. But…

But…

 _Fear is why you lock me up, and I'm you. You lock me away so much that you don't even know if you're you anymore_ , supplied his inner Other-Luke.

He drank a glass of water.

 _And neither does anyone else_.

He dropped the glass in the sink, too hard. It cracked.

 _Sitting here alone above the diner waiting for it to happen and make itself right and giving up because hey, it'll end badly anyway so why bother, right?_

Luke was certain his ribs were breaking from the inside. He really could not breathe.

Rachel never really forgave him for staying put, not even trying to go with her, when the excuse of his sick father was no longer in play because his father died. Of course, he never really forgave Rachel, either.

The shock struck him behind his own eyeballs, if such was possible.

He'd never forgiven Lorelai for anything. Nor Rachel, Anna, Nicole, Liz, his parents, any number of people.

He'd forgive, but only to a point.

 _Which means it's not forgiveness_ , chimed in that entirely too-helpful Other-Luke.

"She forgave me," announced Luke to the apartment. "I mean, she probably hasn't for everything since, but…"

 _But first you'd have to say you're sorry, and mean it._

Pride rebelled. Habit dug in its heels.

He looked at the envelope he'd received. The handwriting wasn't Lorelai's. The return address was some legal firm.

"Man up," he told himself, and finally opened it. It had come registered mail. It might be…

 _It might be hope!_

A check for fifty thousand dollars fell into his hand. A note accompanied it.

He read, "For the inn and the house investment. If it is not a fair amount, please notify at below telephone number."

He sat down again. The check was printed from a computer, and so the ink could not easily run, but his tears did their best to erase the horrible finality nonetheless.


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimer: Theirs.

Author Note: Oh crap, I'm scared. Yes, this is going to be full of angst and "No!" moments and "ARgh!" and "No way!", but I had a really bad two years in real life, and basically dumped that into Stars Hollow. I love the characters, but, well, y'know... Cheap therapy? OK, yeah, shutting up.

NOTE: CHAPTERS WILL ALTERNATE CONSISTENTLY WITH LORELAI/RICHARD, THEN EMILY/LUKE. But please don't only read evens or odds, since some moments continue over from one to the next (Luke to Lorelai, for example).

CHAPTER THREE

Lorelai lay still.

"If I hadn't told him, we'd still be together," she whispered.

"Mom?" asked Rory in a shrill gasp.

"I mean, I lost it anyway, right? So if I kept my mouth shut, then… Then…"

"Mom," moaned Rory. "I'll go get Grandpa!"

Rory fled the bedroom of the residential inn suite.

It had been three weeks since that fateful, awful, miserable day. It had been five days since the most recent of awful days.

Not being an idiot (despite popular opinion), Lorelai had read up on pregnancy for those over 35. A twenty or more percent risk of miscarriage didn't seem too terribly high, until she added in the fact she was a serious caffeine addict who'd decided one missed menstrual period wasn't that big a deal. And, given her levels of stress, it wasn't. Even on the much-hyped "pill", cycles weren't going to react as desired.

Still, she'd been freaking out. The one positive of having to avoid the diner had been drinking less coffee. She didn't want any coffee if it wasn't Luke's. Still…

Still, she'd taken vitamins, just in case, other than the daily multi-vitamin that her doctor told her to take from age 30 onward. Still…

She'd been drunk beyond recall at Lane's wedding. How could she do that knowing she might possibly be pregnant? Still, one test had shown positive that first month, and one showed negative. Still…

None of it stilled her mind, no matter how still her body.

She knew that after 35, risks went up. She'd never admit to anyone but herself that her biological clock's very loud ticking had played into her hope for that whole package with Christopher. She knew, after all, that Chris could get her pregnant.

"I suck," she said.

Who thought like that? Who let stupid fluffy daydream clichés run their life?

"I _suck_ ," she repeated.

The doctors had all told her that chromosomal abnormalities, unavoidable and undetectable, caused most miscarriages. Some flaw in the egg or sperm, and the body said, "Sorry, no can do," and that was that.

Still, Lorelai knew it was her fault.

"I should've gone to the doctor the first time," she said.

Her father rumbled soothingly, "Given the situation, Lorelai, I think anyone would question the validity of a test bought for five dollars at a grocery store."

"I needed to not drink coffee. I had to eat more salads. I should have listened to Luke, and…"

 _Luke_ had become a very nasty four-letter word. It ended any conversation it entered.

After a long time, her father took one of her hands in both of his. "Lorelai. Rory…"

"Wants to go to London."

"Well, yes, but she also wants to understand this odd gift that Huntzberger boy gave her. And to know why he bought her a ticket for Christmas. Mostly, however, Rory wants me to tell you that…"

Lorelai waited. Stillness was new to her, but it was oddly addictive. Passivity seemed to solve a lot of problems. Mainly, it meant she didn't _cause_ any.

"Rory seems to think you don't know I love you, Lorelai."

Lorelai studied her father. He looked terrified. Dignified, but terrified.

"I don't," she answered bluntly. "I mean, you don't like me much, and you dislike everything about my life, and I can't thank you enough for all this help, but you love Rory, you don't love me."

Her father's eyes closed. She waited for guilt. It appeared on cue.

"I'm sorry, Dad, that's…"

"That's the truth," said Richard firmly, yet quietly. "You don't know. Your truth is that you are not loved by your parents."

She barked a not-laugh, and lifted a finger. "Have you met my mother?"

He countered smoothly, "You are loved, Lorelai."

She sighed, turned her head. The décor was American Bland. She for once didn't mind. "Dad, you don't have to do this."

"I don't like many of your choices, but I do love you."

She shrugged, the tiniest possible effort required, in response.

"Do you know why I left your mother?"

Lorelai frowned. "No. I didn't want to ask."

To her shock, her father said, "Your mother kept breaking a promise she made. After a certain point, I realized she never intended to keep that promise to me, and she feels no regret whatsoever about breaking that promise."

Lorelai tried to think, and slowly she pushed herself up to a sitting position, back against the pillows. "Mom broke a promise? To you? But… Wait, I thought you… It was no more Penny Lott and all good?"

Richard shook his head. Slowly. Sadly. He seemed to Lorelai like a big, lonely bear.

"Dad?" Woman of many words, Lorelai found none that worked.

"She promised, after our vow renewal, to stay out of your love life."

"I know."

"No, Lorelai, she didn't only promise you. She promised _me_. I excused it. Her concerns. Our family status." An odd smile writhed over Richard's face. "My pride. Then, you came to us, and her reaction has been as if the situation is not different. As if… I couldn't bear it, when she had sworn to me she…"

Swinging her legs over the side of the bed, Lorelai reached out to hug her father, then drew back. Hugs were not something that happened in the Gilmore family. She and Rory hugged. She and Sookie hugged. Lorelai liked hugs. They weren't very Gilmore, however, and so she stilled again.

He dabbed his face with a handkerchief. Once it was neatly folded away, he continued, "I do not understand her broken promises."

This time, Lorelai did hug him, quickly pulling away. "I'm so sorry, Dad, I should've just dealt with it and then…"

"For God's sake, Lorelai!"

She flinched, cowered inwardly. Here came the Lecture. She had heard it many times, preceded by that impatient, irritated exclamation of her name.

"This is not something you did, Lorelai. This… This _problem_ … It existed without you. Your news merely caused it to resurface, and in such a way that I could no longer ignore or accept it."

"Accept what?" asked Lorelai in a tiny child's voice, cleared her throat, and tried again. "Accept what, Dad?"

"That your mother is not all I thought… Needed… I do not know her, I fear."

Lorelai burst into tears.

It was strange, how the tears came, without her bidding, or her permission.

 _I do not know. I fear_.

Yes, that was it. Fear. Not knowing. Broken promises. Eventually, a broken heart.

Her mother broke her father's heart.

Once, Lorelai would have scrambled to fix their marriage. Someone had to have it. The whole package happy-ever-after. Someone. Everyone. Anyone. More to the point, if her parents failed, then what were her own chances? If the unconquerable duo of Richard and Emily could part ways, then who _would_ stay together?

Rory had returned. "Grandpa?"

"I believe your mother and I have a problem in common, Rory," said Richard, while patting Lorelai's back and holding her against his very good shirt as if it were a giant tissue for her use. "We are not certain we know the one we love. Or loved, as case may be. Can you still love if you are mistaken, to this extent, about the character of the person who is the object of love? Did you love reality, or a dream?"

"How can you _philosophize_?" wailed Lorelai in thick sobs.

"We all have our ways of staying sane. This is, for the moment, my method. I do not claim it lacks madness."

"Shakespeare," sniffled Lorelai. "That's from _Hamlet_. There's method in the madness."

"Mom?" yipped Rory, as if shocked that her mother had ever been exposed to literature.

"I read her the plays when she was little. I did voices. _Hamlet_ is, I believe, responsible for her love of horror movies."

Without thought, Lorelai confirmed, "It's a ghost story, it's cool, I was in high school before I found out everyone died at the end."

"Well," said Richard in his majestic, simple way, "I wanted you to have happy endings to your stories. I'd do the voices for _The Jungle Book_ , as well."

"Wow," whispered Rory in awe. "That's so cool. Mom did that, for me, till I was, like, ten."

"I was five," said Lorelai, shoulders and chest hitching as she battled down more sobs. "He stopped when I was five. I thought it was because I did something wrong at school, so I made sure I only got good grades, so he'd read to me again."

"And I never did," concluded Richard softly, wearily. "You see, Rory, Emily decided Lorelai was too old for such nonsense, and…"

Lorelai couldn't bear to hear more. Stillness could not be borne. Movement, however, was not an easy habit to recover. It took her two tries to reach the bathroom, and there cry while she kept washing the tears from her face.

GG GG GG

Richard Gilmore watched his daughter sleep.

He had not done that in thirty-plus years.

She slept the same way, he noticed. In deepest slumber, she melted, mouth slightly ajar, and one hand reaching for something. What, he didn't know. In infancy, she'd liked a toy. Now, he assumed she missed Luke. Or, possibly, her dog. Richard had drawn a line at having the dog in the residential inn suite that he shared with Lorelai at the moment. He didn't mind animals, precisely, but the dog was notoriously neurotic.

Richard had enough neurotic creatures in his life.

Parental love had not been a valuable commodity in his own youth. It was, like air, assumed to exist. Parental approval, by contrast, came with diligent effort, and was therefore prized.

How odd, thought Richard, that his daughter had neither. Had she received a degree from some Ivy League university, her entrepreneurial spirit and success would… Yes, he admitted, they would matter _more_. It was how his brain was formed before he had a chance to protest, and the pattern was etched deep. He could _not_ approve the road she'd taken. It ought not have included cleaning up after others, in such literal fashion. He was proud of her, yes, naturally, yet…

It caused a pang in his chest, to know his daughter assumed she was not loved, as well as not accepted.

In sleep, her forehead crinkled up. A bad dream, he supposed. He feared to touch her, drew back his hand, and sighed.

A woman suffered in ways men never understood. Richard had accepted that truth from his own mother, and never questioned it. He never wanted to know the details. He began to think perhaps he ought to have asked for a few. It might have explained more of Emily's obsessive need to control and shape Lorelai. Would more children have thinned that, given them all more freedom, permitted mistakes? How much exactly did a uterus control a woman's dreams and how did expectations about a uterus build hopes and disappointments? The whole thing was, for Richard, very mysterious. A miscarriage was tragic, yet hardly uncommon. Would Lorelai be this devastated if she and Luke were intact? Somehow, he thought she would be, but he could not _know_.

He hated that it took this situation for him to be an active parent to his daughter. When he did see her, as a child, it seemed only to involve irritation.

Emily's voice greeted him from within the depths of his memory. _"Richard, do you know what that girl did today?!"_

Memory allegedly faded with age. It apparently did not.

" _I swear, Richard, here's your drink my darling, that girl is…"_

Scowling, Richard tried to recall a time when his coming home did not begin with a drink, a kiss from Emily, and a litany of _that girl_ complaints, centered on their daughter.

" _One more, Richard, one more, and I just don't know what to do!"_

Tired, irritable, wanting nothing more than quiet evenings with a book, Richard Gilmore had thirty years ago begun walking into The Lorelai Complaint Zone. He couldn't very well tell Emily to shut up and deal with it all, when clearly the girl exasperated her to such an extent.

 _The girl_ , his conscience prodded, was his daughter.

The last thing Richard wanted to hear, on reaching home, was a shrill, upset Emily. Lorelai caused it, therefore Lorelai had to be reprimanded.

Thus, Lorelai's greetings to him became, "I'm sorry, Dad." Then she had become a teen and simply avoided them, or said nothing, or sassed them, but she had done no worse than others her age. Emily pretended teen pregnancy was the end of the world, but it wasn't. Men at his club had daughters who needed special week-long "breaks" from "a situation", and it was understood without being said that the girl was off to have a termination that would, of course, never have happened. Since she was never admitted to be pregnant. Granted, it happened infrequently but it happened enough that everyone knew without having to say dreaded words such as "pregnant".

He remembered Emily sobbing to him one of those terrible nights long ago. _"Oh, Richard, she's ruined everything!"_

He remembered shouting at Lorelai. _"How could you do this to us!"_

What if he had hugged her and said, "Oh Lorelai, how do we fix this? What do we do?" Would she have remained in Hartford? Gone to a good school on schedule, as planned, and let them help her with Rory?

With a wistful sigh, Richard released that daydream. It would have required Emily's cooperation to make that work. And he'd been angry, tired, sick of the squabbling and complaints, the blasted drama. It was simplest for him to withdraw. Let the women fight it out.

He shook his head at himself. How a few unheeded, thoughtless words and choices could change a lifetime. They really needed to teach people about those sorts of things. How, he didn't know, but it would have been helpful to him to know he'd face regrets three decades later.

"The hell of age," he told sleeping Lorelai. "You are only wise enough to be a parent when you reach the age to be a grandparent."

She didn't stir.

He looked down at his book. He had no idea what book it was. He'd simply snatched the most imposing tome at the bookstore's best-seller table, and here he sat.

He settled his glasses on his nose. Reading offered escape, and balm. Lorelai preferred television and films, but he suspected that was sheer contrariness. Rejecting erudite literature in order to prove she was _not_ the sort of woman Hartford society could ever accept. Then again, his daughter might reject books as taking more time than she'd been able to afford as a single young mother with an arduous job.

Concentrating, Richard discovered he could about grasp the word "the".

He shut the book.

Lorelai squeaked, sat up, slapping herself.

This, Richard knew.

He took her hands quickly. "They're not there. It's not real. No bugs, Lorelai."

She sucked air loudly into herself, then blinked, shook her head hard. "Wow. I haven't had that one in a long time."

"Night terrors," said Richard casually. "Everyone has one now and then. Mine were always some strange figure watching me from the ceiling. You've always had insects crawling on you."

"Under my skin," corrected Lorelai, but smiled weakly. "Why're you up?"

"I think the question is, why are you down," he countered. "It's only two in the afternoon."

"Ugh," sighed his daughter, and yawned. "I feel like I can't get enough sleep. I thought I'd close my eyes and think, and then, wham."

"Wham, indeed."

Lorelai promptly fussed the couch into order. "You don't have to hover, Dad. I'll be okay. Somehow, I will, I promise."

Richard was too well-bred to squirm, much as he wanted to. "Where would I go, Lorelai? I've no idea what to say to… Or… Well, let's call this a well-earned impromptu break for me, and leave it at that."

She nodded, mouth turning down. The last weeks had aged them both. He could see more Trix in Lorelai, did not dare look in a mirror too closely at what showed in him.

She stood, wearing her "Yale Mom" t-shirt and some sort of baggy exercise shorts that reached to her knees. "Tea?"

"Yes, please, the chamomile-mint."

She went into the kitchen area, and made him a mug of tea. She had her own, of instant coffee, heavily flavored with some sort of powder that was meant to taste of hazelnuts. She left him to his book and stood at the window, watching nothing at all.

Duty and conscience prompted Richard to say sternly, "We must face the world sooner or later."

"I know. I should be at the inn. I can only do so much from here."

Richard said it, to have it done, ripping away the band-aid, so to speak. "He did not look for you there, either, Lorelai."

Her face flushed. He had not meant to hurt her. Not that deeply.

"I meant…"

"No," interrupted his daughter quickly, "no, it's okay. You're right. It's just… I made Stars Hollow this magical place, and it's not. And I made Luke this magical guy, and I can't stand that house anymore, it's this big huge symbol that says I failed, that nothing I do, nothing I _am_ , is ever _enough_ , and…" She turned away, head dropping. "Thanks again. For paying off the investments he made."

"It is a pleasure to add your inn to my portfolio."

"Thanks, Dad."

He had heard much from Lorelai in her life. That robotic tone was one thing he wished he'd never hear again.

"I'm certain we'll find a buyer for the house."

"I know."

Richard tried again, this time aiming at her business acumen. "I think it's quite wise of you to use the house sale to create a cash fund, against possible troubles at the inn."

"Common sense, Dad."

At last, Richard inquired delicately, "Does he know?"

"Rory said she told him. I didn't want her to. It was my job to tell him."

Richard winced for his daughter. Self-destruction was not a Gilmore trait, except in Lorelai.

"At least he didn't ask if I got rid of it on purpose."

The falsity of her cheer grated on Richard's remaining nerve. "I think I'll take a walk, ponder the future. Shall we meet for supper?"

"Sure, Dad. The restaurant next door?"

"At six."

"Okay."

No one could call Richard Gilmore a coward, but everyone had limits. His were reached, when it came to watching Lorelai build a sparkling glass shell around herself, yet again, to show the world how little it bothered her. He'd taught her that. Emily had taught her that. He finally understood why she suffocated in their world.

A person in a glass shell had no air to breathe.

GG GG GG


	4. Chapter 4

Disclaimer: Wash, rinse, repeat: Theirs.

AN: I posted two chapters today b/c my addled brain posted them out of order. Sorry. Hopefully, there's a Chapter 3 with Lorelai and RIchard now... *Headdesk*

CHAPTER FOUR

Emily remained chatting on the phone as she walked to the front door to answer the bell. "Oh, you know men, they need their special little vacations to themselves," she tittered. "I'm merely grateful his taste doesn't run to Las Vegas. Yes, I know. We'll have to get our revenge with a spa month. Yes, I know. I've an appointment, Bitsy, I must run." She kissed air near the mouthpiece of the phone. She set down the phone with a grimace of disgust. "That woman is almost as brainless as she is annoying."

She opened her front door.

She said, "You are not the landscape designer."

Luke Danes said gruffly, "Yeah, I know."

"And hello to you too, do come in," she sniped as he prowled into her immaculate foyer with the air of a hunted rabbit. "What on earth…"

"Have you heard anything? Is Lorelai okay? I can't find her. Rory won't tell me. I saw this video, of Lane's wedding, and Lorelai was a mess. Why didn't she _tell_ me?!"

Emily's eyebrows rose higher with every word. Finally, she announced, "Even I knew there was a problem. If you couldn't see it, then perhaps you didn't want to see it. After all, it's oh-so-impossible to have a child and live one's life simultaneously."

His replying glower was quite eloquent.

"You told her to stay away. She did. When, precisely, Mr. Danes, was my daughter able to tell you anything? Now, as to how Lorelai is, how would I know? I'm only her mother," groused Emily, pacing to the drink cart. "Do you want anything?"

His mouth curled down. "No."

Pouring herself a sherry, Emily stated calmly, "Richard is not in contact with me, and neither is Lorelai. The situation is unchanged in that regard."

"Rory?" he asked hopefully.

Emily exhaled hard, and set down her drink without tasting it. She kept her back turned to the greasy diner man and his ragged flannel. He had no right to see her pain. "We have dinner every Friday."

She left out that Rory came, said hello, ate, said good-bye, and left. On the best evenings, Rory discussed weather.

"Oh," said Luke in a small, broken voice. When she looked, his head hung low, his elbows on his knees, his hands loose and limp. "She only talked to me once."

"Hurrah," drawled Emily, and sat where, a few weeks earlier, she had harangued her daughter.

"I just… I was…"

"You were an idiot," said Emily crisply, "who wanted a simpler life. You succeeded. Why precisely are you here?"

"Rory won't talk to me. I had this. To give to Lorelai." He drew a folded envelope from inside his pocket. He set it on the coffee table. "Could you ask Rory to give it to Lorelai for me?"

Luke Danes, crawling to her, begging a favor, should have elated Emily. Instead, she stifled a yawn. "A check for her inn? An apology note?"

"No. Yeah…" He drifted off, haggard enough to almost elicit sympathy from Emily. "I didn't think. But I think a lot. All the time now."

"Does it hurt?" inquired Emily too sweetly.

Luke Danes ignored her. She began to regret abandoning the sherry.

"I forgot she's _Lorelai_ , and…"

"Finish a sentence, I do have a landscape designer on my schedule," snapped Emily.

"But now there's no baby so there's no reason she'd let me near her again. I didn't think she wouldn't still be there."

Emily rolled her eyes. The man was more logical when stinking of beer. "You make no sense."

"Yeah, I'm learning that," said Luke with sudden clarity. He stood quickly. "Will you ask Rory to give that to Lorelai? I can't fix this. I know that. But I want her to know." He shrugged, red-faced, and coughed, "Having a kid with her would've been amazing."

Something caught Emily's attention in a new way. "You refer to the child in the past tense. Why?"

Luke stared at her. He swore under his breath. "Oh. Uh. Rory didn't tell you."

Emily stalked him, one click of her heels at a time. "What. Did. Rory. Not. Tell. Me."

"She miscarried. She told Rory it was a sign that she wasn't meant… _We_ weren't meant…" Luke's jaw clamped visibly. "Just have Rory get that to Lorelai."

Hand at her throat, Emily nodded, mute. She let Luke Danes see himself out.

Her legs wobbled.

Nobody told her.

Nobody.

She called the landscape designer. Her koi pond could wait.

She called Richard and left yet another voice-mail. "Richard. This is Emily. Why? Why didn't anyone tell me? Is Lorelai all right? Did the doctors say why it happened?"

She was halfway through the number of rings to reach Lorelai's voice-mail when her brain and ears communicated, and she flushed cold with shame.

She returned to Richard's voice-mail. "I don't mean to say it was something Lorelai did, I know, you know I know it can happen no matter how you… Richard, please, just tell me Lorelai is all right. Medically all right. I know she's not all right otherwise, Rory won't even mention her to me, please, Richard, she's my daughter!"

Yet when she reached Lorelai's voice-mail what poured out of her was not a heartfelt plea. It was a cool, "Lorelai, this is your mother, call me, please."

She studied the phone.

She hurled it into the couch. Lest she make a disturbance that the dreadful maid could gossip about.

She sank weakly to the cushion near the phone's final resting place. She pressed her hands to her mouth. How often had she hoped, only to feel that terrible cramping? How often had she screamed into her pillow at night? How many vitamins and diets had she tried? How many doctors had she seen? Lorelai was her miracle, her _miracle_ , and her punishment. Why did she have Lorelai, not a child who loved dolls and dresses and all Emily dreamt of sharing with a daughter? Why? Why did it have to be difficult?

Why did she think like this?

She glanced around. The sound of the vacuum reassured her. She clutched a pillow to her, cradling it.

Eventually, the sound of the vacuum ended. Startled into composure, Emily patted the pillow into place, set the phone on the table, and examined the envelope contaminating her living room.

She picked it up. She walked into her office. She slid it into another envelope, and wrote her granddaughter's name on it. It fixed nothing, but perhaps it might show she was not a monster. And right that moment, Emily needed to believe she was not a monster.

GG GG GG

When Luke dropped off April, he swore he saw Lorelai.

He blinked, and it was Anna, and she was furious.

"You're ten minutes late!"

"There was a fender-bender," began Luke, and let April finish, "We were stuck until they towed the cars. It's just ten minutes, Mom."

Anna pointed. April rolled her eyes and went into the shop.

"You have a cell phone," snapped Anna.

He nodded. "Yeah. Ten minutes, Anna, it's ten minutes, she was safe."

"How am I supposed to know that? You were meant to spend an afternoon with her, and you cancelled on no notice, and now this! And you wonder why I didn't tell you that she might be yours."

It came together, for Luke. The anger he felt, and a dark-haired blue-eyed beauty demanding something, and he thought he'd throw up right there, on the sidewalk.

Anna yelling at him about his fiancée daring to come talk to her, and his fiancée yelling at him, and fatherhood, all in one blur, became words that he'd have said to Anna, needed to say to Anna, but it was Lorelai who was there when the words came.

It was Anna standing in front of him when the realization came.

Luke claimed he needed time to process things. To think. To decide. The truth was somewhat less flattering. He liked to wallow. His inner Other-Luke did not. That inner nagging self knew years ago that he ought to give up on Rachel, stop pretending that Rachel was ever going to come back for real, and simply get on with his own life. That inner self had told him to ask out Lorelai. That inner self came out more around Lorelai. April, too. Liz. Rory. And for the most part, Luke hated it. Hated that part of himself, hated that it made him soft, hated that it wouldn't _leave him alone_.

His Other-Luke inner voice pointed out, _You sound like Uncle Louie._

"Well?" snarled Anna, all her beauty hard and cold. She sparkled the way diamonds did. He felt a pang. Lorelai was sparkling but soft, like her beloved snow.

"Well," said Luke slowly, "I'll see April day after tomorrow."

"And no excuse to her yet for why you…"

Luke's inner self, the soft part, the one that got him into trouble and pain and heartache, took over. He said quietly, "It's not something you tell a kid." He paused, and added coldly, "Or an ex. You kept me out of twelve years of her life. I can take a few days when I get bad news, all right?"

Anna's nostrils flared. Was this why he blew it with Lorelai? The superficial resemblance to Anna in coloring and love of kitschy odds and ends? He could hate _her_ , because _she_ didn't have his kid?

Stomping to his truck, Luke knew he got it. More fully than he'd known he needed to get it. He couldn't _hate_ Anna. He couldn't express it if he did. They shared a kid. He had to put on a smile and a good face and make nice, and remember the connection between them had been enough to result in a child. Which forced memories of other things, the things that led to children, and those were generally not the worst memories of a relationship. All that Lorelai tried to explain about Rory's dad… Now applied to him.

"Crap," he said to himself.

His inner, other, and probably better self prodded him with a quiet, _I knew it. I saw it coming. I wanted to fix it. I wanted to tell her. I wanted to ask for help. But why do that when it's easier to judge how someone else will be by how I'd be._

He'd written that to Lorelai. That much, he'd known and written.

He entered the diner, saw it was empty, and called, "Cesar? Go home."

"Okay."

It was suppertime, and his diner was empty. Not even Kirk. There were no ribbons this time around. The town was Team Lorelai, and that was that.

Luke started to laugh. _He_ was Team Lorelai.

His laugh scared him. He stopped it with a slap of the cleaning rag on a table, as terminal punctuation.

He flipped the sign to "Closed". He shut down the grill. He loaded the dishwasher. He went into the soothing rhythms of cleaning, turning chairs onto the tables. He managed to not be teary-eyed when he saw the shakers and dispensers filled by his daughter. He almost avoided tears at the sight of Lorelai's favorite, now-unused mug. He rubbed his face with a shirt sleeve, and kept going. An early night suited him.

The bells jangled.

Nobody came in after the sign was turned to "Closed".

Only Lorelai.

He spun, heart racing, certain he was wrong even as he hoped he was right.

Lorelai didn't say hello. She dove right in while he was still trying to form the syllables for "What?" and "Huh?".

"I thought about this a long time," she clipped out icily. Thinner than he felt could possibly be healthy, beautiful as ever. "You get one chance to tell me what the hell you meant by _who's the lucky guy_. Not because we're going to be…" Her hand went from herself to him and back. "Like that again. Because you owe me an explanation. I _need_ an explanation, Luke. How the hell could you say that to me? Am I really that big a slut? Am I _that_ bad, you think I'd do that to you? Am I? I knew my mother thought that way, but you, Luke? _You_? Everyone told me, you're great, you love me, and I believed it, and I made you this great guy in my head and then you said…" Her voice and body wobbled alike. "You said _who's the lucky guy_. I was, I _am_ , broken into pieces and I can't get glued back together again! I was trying so hard, and I took vitamins, and then all I could think…" Lorelai slumped to a table, shuddering as if she had a terrible fever. "All I could think was that you'd just yell at me and tell me you told me so and you'd be right, I didn't, I should've, I… Just tell me why you said that, and I'll go away, I promise!"

He pulled off his flannel shirt and wrapped it around her and sat her down, his fear for her overriding all else. "I said it because I'm a jackass and I couldn't hurt Anna so I hurt you, and that's so stupid it makes me sick," he said swiftly, hoping she'd look at him, see his truth. "And I got so wrapped up in myself." He gulped as her eyes met his, like blue diamond drills. "I got in my head. I'd been away from you so much. And Nicole cheated. And Anna did. And… And you forgave me for April but I don't forgive anyone else, and I wrote that to you, never mind."

"So that's all it was?" whispered Lorelai brokenly, eyes filling with tears. "I was a convenient target?"

Luke hated himself. No, he _loathed_ himself, more than he knew possible, but he was honest about it. "Yeah."

She dipped her chin, her shoulders rounding, then squaring. "I didn't ask the town to…"

"I know."

"My mother… She said some things. She'd promised my dad she'd… She broke her promises. He's not sure they can make it work again."

Luke leapt into the abyss, jumped gladly forward, fear and all. "And us?"

She laid her hand along his cheek. "Oh Luke. That letter, it did explain a lot, even if Rory did read it first and then try to edit it so I couldn't be upset."

Luke groaned. "Ah geez." A moment later, he said in shock, "Wait, your mother gave it to her?"

Lorelai shrugged. "Yeah, don't ask me, I never understand my mother." Her hand fell from his cheek. She took off the flannel he'd wrapped like a shawl around her, and laid it on the table, neatly smoothing it with one thin hand. "The point is… I don't know, Luke. You broke more than my heart. This broke _us_. My dad, he said it better than I can. How do you love someone if they're not who you thought? And I don't know. But I know the Luke Danes I _thought_? He'd never say that. He'd never do that. But he did, so maybe… Maybe the Luke I loved was imaginary all along. I don't know. And I don't know if I want to find out. It's…"

"Easier to cut me off and walk away," concluded Luke bitterly. "Dammit, Lorelai, I want to try!"

"I know," replied Lorelai, and pushed away from him, rose unsteadily. "The thing is, will you still want to keep trying if it gets confusing or difficult again?"

His fear silenced him. So did his conscience. Confusing-difficult usually meant _change._ Change equaled _bad_. Thus, no change equaled _good_. And here he was. Unchanged. Right down to his inability to speak when only speech would do.

Lorelai sighed. She reached into her purse and set a small box on the table. "The town'll come back to the diner. I won't. It's not a good idea. For either of us. Once the house sells…"

He barked an outraged, "Selling the house?! Leaving!"

"Not leaving," said Lorelai slowly, with a flush rising over her cheeks, "I'm selling the house. It's for a family. Not me and a dog."

He had a hundred possible answers, and his inner self wanted to kick him when he uttered the words, "I gave up Twickham House for you!"

"You didn't ask me about Twickham House!"

She had a point. He hated her for that.

She went on, relentless, and he knew why. He let things fester. Lorelai burned them out. Both methods hurt like eighteen kinds of hell, and left scars. It was a depressing realization.

"When the house sells, if you decide the compensation check wasn't enough, you can…"

He croaked, "Lorelai."

"…my dad's lawyer."

The silence between them hurt. It was strange, to have his ears hurt from silence.

"You said, in that letter," began Lorelai, then halted, shaking her head. She started for the door.

"What?" blurted Luke, feeling much more lost than he'd expected. Closure was a coffin lid being sealed. That was why he avoided it.

"You never forgave me for things that happened years ago. Why?"

Her question was so heartfelt and baffled that Luke knew he'd punch any guy who did this to her, only he couldn't punch himself. Not in the nose, at least.

He sank to a chair he hadn't yet flipped atop a table. "My uncle, Louie. Dad. It's what we do. No apologies are ever enough for us."

"But _why_?"

Fumbling for verbal communication was even worse than writing letters, Luke discovered. What came out was a strangled, "I make myself misunderstood."

She uttered a low slow breath that was not quite a curse. As she opened the diner door, she asked abruptly, "What did Nicole have? That you'd marry her but nobody else?"

Luke said heavily, "She did things a way I understood," and realized he'd trotted out the same crap he'd handed Jess about how abnormal people irked him.

He exhaled hard, and gave Lorelai the truth.

"She left me alone."

"You married her because she left you alone," repeated Lorelai, and in that moment, he saw it. She really had no idea who he was.

Then again, neither did he. Beyond angry-grumpy-somehow-nice-guy, and that didn't make much sense anymore, either. When she was helping him apartment-hunt, she'd been eager to play a couple. He told himself it was Lorelai playing a game, but what if it was flirting? Why did he think she'd tell a married man she wanted him, in a bell tower in the middle of the night? What kind of person did he think Lorelai was?

And what did those thoughts make him?

The bells didn't even make a noise, so softly did Lorelai slip out the door.

Long ago, she'd told him he wasn't Uncle Louie.

He didn't think she could tell him that now.

He picked up the little box. He knew what was in it, and killed himself looking into it anyway. The ring. The ring he'd given her, to represent a promise he'd then broken.

He went to the phone. He made a call to one person who might understand best about screwing up beyond redemption. "Liz? Hey. No, it's not a… Liz!" He drew a breath, found calm enough to say words he thought impossible even that morning. "Liz, I just saw Lorelai and I think I'm Uncle Louie."

He'd disregarded his sister as a flake, a loser, a leech for years. An unforgivable train wreck. He'd never been more grateful to have her as a sister than when she said, "Don't move, I'll be there in, like, five minutes. Without TJ."

GG GG GG


	5. Chapter 5

Disclaimer: Yep, again it's not mine.

CHAPTER FIVE

"How does someone grow up?"

Lorelai's question popped out between the end of salmon piccata and the start of coffee.

Her father regarded her with a tired smile. "In what way, Lorelai?"

Fiddling with her fork, and pretending half her food did not remain uneaten, Lorelai said to the table, "Well, y'know. I like stupid goofy dumb things and I suck at dating and I'm pretty much a mess. How'd you do it, Dad? How did you _grow up_?"

The plates were cleared and coffee set before them. The waiter was an old hand at the Dragonfly Inn. He did not linger when Lorelai had meals with her father. Everyone knew they were somber occasions, and treated them as if they were in mourning.

They were, as far as Lorelai was concerned.

"I think you may have a different idea of adulthood, of maturity, than I do," replied Richard wearily, and took her hand, squeezed it, released it. Lorelai cherished the brief warmth. "I still love ice cream as much as I did when I was a little boy. If we measure only by those small things that delight us…" Richard's attempted smile fell, and Lorelai wished she'd never said a word. "Then no one grows up. We grow older."

Lorelai nodded and diluted her coffee with cream. The longer she went without Luke's coffee, the less she wanted any coffee. The mere smell took her to memories she endured as punishment.

"We have an idea of what it is to be an adult. We fit ourselves into that idea. Family dignity. Standards of conduct."

Lorelai raised her hands and made a slight pushing motion in the air. "Okay, Dad, I get it, I didn't do it right. I know that!"

"I enjoy my life. It suits me. It usually has," snapped Richard, drawing out his wallet, and then replacing it when Lorelai snatched the check off the table's edge. "The life I enjoy does not give you pleasure. Why, I don't know. I don't ask anymore. Thirty years of asking has resulted in no better answer than… You, Lorelai, are _you_. Perhaps if we'd been less strict, less severe, when you were a child, and you'd felt freer then, you wouldn't have felt a need to rebel. I truly don't know." He rubbed the bridge of his nose.

"Headache?"

"Not quite yet, but soon, I suspect."

Lorelai wanted to hug him, and did not dare. "You see Mom today."

"Unfortunately."

"Dad," she said gently, and meant it as a hug.

"It's been twenty years, Lorelai, of the same song, the same refrain, you belong with Christopher. Yes, I wish you'd married and stayed in Hartford and become part of the things we enjoy and find important."

Fighting down anger, Lorelai sighed, "I know, I'm sorry, Dad."

"But it's been twenty years. Even I can realize it's rather ludicrous to demand you live according to the rules and dreams your mother and I had when you were sixteen." His smile went awry. He cleared his throat awkwardly. "Emily made a promise. No more interference, and no more Christopher, and no more…"

Lorelai tried to fill in with a chirpy, "No more bash-the-Lorelai-piñata?"

Her father let her interrupt, with a cutting glare that softened at once. "Rory is older now than you were when your mother began this insistence of hers that you fit our plans. I think it is safe to say that we have long since passed the expiration date on that possibility, and I am sorry, Lorelai, I did not allow myself to… That this… I wish I had been able to say these things and feel these things much sooner."

That time, Lorelai did rise, and clumsily hug her father, with a teary-eyed, "Thanks, Dad. I mean it."

He patted her arms, and shifted subtly out of her embrace. "And I thank you, Lorelai, for this lovely lunch, and for bearing with an old man's regrets."

"You're not old," protested Lorelai. "You're aging to best quality like one of those brandies of yours."

He laughed briefly, stood with a small wince for what Lorelai knew were aches and pains from stress and lack of good sleep in his own comfortable home. "I shall bear that in mind. Now, into the dragon's teeth."

Guilt and grief slammed Lorelai, and she whispered, "Dad, you can… Mom…"

He hugged her, lightly, left behind a whiff of bay rum cologne. "Our usual time and place this weekend?"

"You betcha," she answered, forcing lightness she did not feel and had not felt for some time. "Sookie loves figuring out how to make something decadent and heart-healthy."

At that, a real smile lit her father's eyes. "Is there any hope of that amazing risotto, do you think, for Sunday with you and Rory?"

"I know the owner and the chef here," quipped Lorelai, walking him to the door of the inn. "I think I can arrange a risotto."

He gave her another smile, and she waved until his car was out of sight.

A light touch on her shoulder told her it was Michel.

He handed her a mug that held, unmistakably, not-coffee. It was ice water.

They watched the day unfold, the birds and squirrels and leaves and dust of summer.

Michel offered quietly, "You did not eat enough."

Lorelai smiled to think of calorie-counting Michel encouraging anyone to eat. "I'll have something later."

"Lorelai," he admonished.

"Michel," she mocked, half-heartedly.

He gave her a sad, scolding look.

She gave up. "Nothing tastes good anymore, that's all."

Michel's gaze was shrewd, understanding. "Perhaps your palate is refining itself. Now, _some_ of us have work to do."

She gazed fondly after Michel. He, Sookie, Rory, her father, Jackson… They cared. It helped.

Her phone buzzed. She made a face. She was beginning to hate weddings.

"Always a planner, never a bride," she said to herself, to prove she was all right, and answered the phone with a bright, "Lorelai Gilmore, Dragonfly Inn, how may I help you? Oh, Cassidy, yes, of course, I got your e-mail, I was about to reply. Yes, I still think it's better to avoid releasing doves."

She was walking through the lobby, and as she said that, she rolled her eyes at Michel. He rolled his to heaven. Yes, some things at least were still normal in her life. Whatever "normal" meant.

GG GG GG

Awaiting Emily's arrival on a bench, Richard sipped at a bottle of water. Behind him, traffic hummed quietly through downtown Hartford, along the prettily landscaped Jewell Street. Before him lay Bushnell Park's lily pond, though it was rather more brackish-looking than adorned by blooms. The spouting fountain pattered pleasantly. The warm breeze rustled. People walked, or sat, and he was suddenly assailed by a memory of a young Lorelai, begging to go ride the carousel. He'd immediately agreed to it, only to have Emily dig her nails into his forearm, with a curt, "She's not dressed for it, Richard."

Stuck in a museum-appropriate dress, Lorelai had gazed pleadingly at him. He could hear her so vividly that he thought he'd fallen through time. _Please, Daddy, I'll ride side-saddle!_

He'd known Emily's feet ached from the museum tour. She'd been new to its board of something-or-other. Wentworth? No, it was the Wadsworth, for all the world like some oddly misplaced movie-world castle, with a squat block attached. It wasn't bad, really, until they reached the twentieth-century art exhibits and collections. Richard still didn't grasp what was considered "modern" art. And, oh, how he had wanted to go home, too. Yet a carousel ride and an ice cream were small reward for a child who had endured three hours of museum. Or, really, for a man who had endured the same.

He'd taken Lorelai's hand and promised her they'd ride the carousel some other day.

He wondered if that day had ever arrived. He had a horrible feeling it had not.

"Good heavens, Richard, you said by the pond, you could've been more specific!"

"There is only one lily pond in this park, Emily," answered Richard mildly, and offered her a bottle of water. The afternoon was unusually balmy, but Emily was dressed for autumn. She looked beautiful. He said so.

She smiled and smoothed her skirt unnecessarily, turning her body toward him. "You look well. How is Lorelai?"

"Busy," said Richard curtly. He could still see Emily in that blue dress, so long ago, the one that meant she hit him like lightning. Unfortunately, he also saw a hard sheen to her eyes, and his heart twinged with purely emotional pain at the loss of youth, and the temptress she'd been. "Oh, Emily, why must you want the impossible?"

She continued to smile, the one he'd seen her give people like Shira Huntzberger. "I want what is proper for this family."

He turned his eyes to the little spurting fountain in the pond.

Emily's tone was waspish. "You have wanted the same thing, Richard."

"I have," he admitted, watching a young couple with twins in a stroller, on the other side of the pond. "I do. I want Lorelai to find a good, loving husband who can support her and her ambitions and her goals. I want that for Rory, as well. I also want a wife who doesn't break her promises."

Silence bubbled hot between them.

Richard thundered through it.

"You promised, Emily. After that disaster at the vow renewal, after the way Lorelai reacted to that as she has always done to any insistence she do things the way _we_ want, you promised me, on our marriage vows, Emily. We nearly lost Lorelai over that, let alone the mess with Rory and that idiotic yacht incident, and doing it _your_ way very nearly cost Rory…" He drew breath, let it out as his cardiologist advised him to do, during anxious moments. "Yes, I also saw a chance. A redemption, if you like." His hands flexed on his knees. "And yet… Yet…" He twisted to face her, jaw set, eyes stern. "She came to us, Emily, utterly devastated, and your first reaction was to tell her how horrible she was! How wrong her choices, how shameful her behavior! My God, Emily! You even knew they were having trouble, yet you broke your promise to me, to her! You brought Christopher to our house!"

"He is Rory's father!" shrilled Emily, pink-faced.

"Tell me how trying to arrange a date for Christopher, when you know Lorelai is unhappy, right under Lorelai's nose, does _not_ somehow lead us back yet again to the eternal chorus of Lorelai needing to marry Christopher!" He stood, swigged water to buy himself a moment, and restored his composure with effort. "She said no when she was sixteen. He never put any serious effort into Rory or into a real relationship with Lorelai. Our disapproval of her led us both to blame her for _his_ deficiencies, our injured pride led us to decide she had shamed us long after everyone else forgot or ceased to care if Rory was born out of wedlock, and you…"

"I did it for everyone's best, Richard!"

"A drunken Hayden at our vow renewal did not lead to any positive outcome, Emily. And a flimsy attempt to make Lorelai jealous, by showing her that Christopher had other women to choose, with that silly matchmaking?"

"That is not what I intended!"

Richard succumbed to petty spite. "Oh? Then why did our family dinner become a dating program?"

"I was doing Rory's father a kindness. He'd been much better about involving himself in Rory's life, and…"

"Balderdash!" roared Richard, startling a pigeon into flight. "You hoped that Lorelai would turn to him, and away from her fiancé! What good would that do for anyone?"

"I don't know!" shrieked Emily, and Richard sat flat down on the bench with a gasp. "I don't know, fine, there you are, Richard, I don't know!" She had leapt up, either on the verge of tears or of buying out a department store. He'd yet to know which, when it came to Emily. "He's single, she was miserable with that stupid diner man, why _not_ try? He's a Hayden, he's Rory's father!"

A lump clogged Richard's throat. "Emily. Marriage to Christopher wouldn't tie Lorelai to Hartford society. He's never been part of it, either," he admitted. He scowled at the clouds beginning to cover the sky. "I have had a great deal of time to think, and to wonder, and no matter how I try, I cannot understand your reasoning, nor accept your deceit."

"My _what_?" rasped Emily, shoulders flung back.

"You do recall that promise to stay out of her romantic life? Her decisions?"

"Well, I didn't _push_ , I simply…"

"And then," said Richard coldly, "you berated her as if she were still sixteen. I was not thrilled to know she was again unwed and pregnant, but I certainly understand that she was engaged to be married, and is certainly an adult, and in vastly different circumstances."

"Oh pish," sniffed Emily, dismissing Lorelai with a wave of her hand. "Those silly shirts and movies and _toys_ of hers. She's ridiculously immature!"

"She is not alone in that," he said with compassion. "We all have preferences, and hers aren't ours. Is something like that truly worth losing our daughter?"

"She's never even tried, Richard!"

His eyes burned with tears. "Did you?"

She raised a hand to slap him, but he'd already stepped out of range.

"The definition of insanity, Emily, is repeating an action but expecting a different result. I am opting for sanity."

Her lips thinned.

"I will have someone come for my things."

"You're leaving me."

He felt sorry for her, against all expectation. "I _have_ left you, my dear. Not without regret or pain, but I cannot do this anymore. I want peace. I cannot have it if I remain with you."

"I will take every penny," threatened Emily.

"My dear, I wish you joy of those pennies," Richard smiled acidly. "Now, I think I shall walk to the carousel, and watch the children play."

He left Emily stunned, and baffled, and felt a surge of grief combined with hope. Someday, he could bring a child to that carousel. If not Lorelai's, then Rory's. He might ride it himself.

AN: Hartford locations are real. That carousel is on my bucket list.


	6. Chapter 6

Disclaimer: Theirs. Really not mine.

Added this AN: For the haters... I did say in Chapter 1, right off the bat, it's hate-able. I hated it as I wrote it. OK? OK. Onward.

CHAPTER SIX

Emily secretly blamed the DNA of Trix for Lorelai. It gave her a small dark pleasure to chalk up one more grievance against her late mother-in-law. She had congratulated herself that _her_ genes had created Rory. The biological weirdness of that theory didn't bother her. She had her happy little dream that Rory was the Lorelai she _ought_ have had, and not even an arrest had changed her mind.

Then Emily announced casually that she had hired a certain notorious divorce attorney to make clear to everyone _she_ was the wronged party.

Sweet Rory, who could go so far, if she'd only listen to reason and do the sensible thing, and not be her mother… Dear Rory, who could be shown off without shame (and Emily didn't question the morality of the theft of a yacht)… Wonderful Rory, full of potential and courtesy and gratitude for the benefits of wealth…

Rory showed she was, in fact, a Lorelai.

"I don't believe you!" screeched Rory, and stood so quickly that her hair flew and her chair fell. "Why are you doing this to Grandpa? He's _right_!"

"Rory! You're making a scene!" scolded Emily primly, although they were at a Starbuck's, and therefore not somewhere frequented by Emily's acquaintances.

"I'm making a scene?" yelped Rory, blue eyes flashing with a fire that reminded Emily of Lorelai. "You're punishing Mom and Grandpa! You promised! You _promised_! The only reason I still speak to you is because… Because… Oh, I don't know why!" Rory flung her hands up and out. "But I won't. Keep speaking to you. Do you have _any_ idea what this is doing to the rest of us? Mom's so upset she gave up _coffee_!"

"Well, that's certainly sensible."

Rory's mouth dropped open. Her eyes rounded. At last she wheezed, "My mom. No coffee. Is Armageddon. Not the movie, either, I mean end-of-the-world four-horsemen-of-the-Apocalypse kind of Armageddon. Mom's… And Grandpa… And… Oh my God, I can't talk to you, you're impossible!"

With that, Rory lifted her hands, dropped them, grabbed her bag, and bolted.

"Rory Gilmore, you get back here!" called Emily.

The gesture she received in response was _not_ polite.

Emily's cheeks scorched hot.

She walked to her car, mouth twisting down, and heard a strange dull echo in her head of her daughter's voice a few months ago: _I don't know where to be_.

She sat. She put the keys in the ignition. She automatically patted her hair and saw to it her seatbelt didn't wrinkle her blouse.

She shook.

She didn't know _how_ to be. Other than _this_ Emily she had crafted into a lethal weapon for decades, for use in the cause of the Gilmore wealth and reputation, prestige, _noblesse oblige_ , and self-defense against all the other finely honed battleaxes of society, from Trix to Shira Huntzberger.

She had lost Lorelai decades ago. Now, she was losing Richard and Rory. It was unbearable.

She drove, unthinking, to Stars Hollow.

She stalked grandly into the lobby of the inn, brushed past the startled Frenchman stammering, "Mrs. Gilmore, a pleasure, but I do not think…" and into her daughter's office.

"Not now, Michel," said Lorelai, without turning.

"I am not Michel."

"I just got off the phone with my daughter," Lorelai stated, and spun in her chair. Her blouse was a lovely pink, her suit a discreet gray with lavender pin stripes. Emily sniffed. It was very _last_ year. Or year before. Nor did it do wonders for Lorelai's pallor, which was showing through her cosmetics. "Back off, Mother. I mean it. If Rory wants to have a relationship with you, fine. What's between you and Dad, that's your business. What's between us, that's ours. She's Switzerland, got it?"

"I said nothing of the kind to Rory!"

"You expected her to approve of what you're doing to her grandfather," snapped Lorelai haughtily, her fingers curling tight around a pen with a fluffy purple feather on its end. "You don't get it, do you? Breaking a promise once, okay, if you're sorry, if you _stop_ , but you don't, Mother! You _don't stop_! Even I stop! Dad stops! You, you…" Lorelai flung away the pen, got to her feet, loomed over Emily somehow. "You and Christopher, big promises, big _broken_ promises! I broke rules, I screwed up, I've broken promises to come home by curfew, but you, Mom? You broke your word to stay out of my love life! You broke your promise to _Dad_! I mean, okay, fine, break your promise to me, that's business as usual, but you… Oh my God, Mom, you have no idea…"

Lorelai stopped short, startling Emily by her silence.

"I have no idea of what, pray?" drawled Emily in her best Voice of Authority.

"It doesn't matter," sighed her daughter, pushing fingers into her temples against what Emily imagined to be a headache. "Just go, okay? Stop contaminating yourself with the great failure that is your daughter."

A master of contempt, Emily gasped at realizing she had taught Lorelai that contempt.

The Frenchman, reliably polite, appeared at her elbow. "This way, Mrs. Gilmore, Miss Gilmore has a very busy schedule, I'm sure you don't understand what it is to own and operate your own business."

Emily was on the porch before Michel's silky little _don't_ registered.

She huffed, as much to truly catch her breath as to express her pain.

"There are ways things are done, and I will not do them any other way," she told the air.

A rough male voice startled her.

"Yeah. I say that, too."

She glowered down at the greasy diner man. "What are _you_ doing here?"

"Trying to get up the guts to walk in. You?" countered her daughter's blessedly _ex_ -boyfriend.

"Being thrown out."

"I haven't gotten that far yet," said Luke Danes far too calmly. "Heard about your divorce. Sucks."

He meant that about as much as he would have meant a love song in her honor. Emily rolled her eyes. "Yes, I'm certain you feel my pain. As it happens, I'll do very well."

She waltzed past him, only to hear the crunch of his steps behind her, and at her car, she spun, spat, "What do you want?"

Emily could not read his eyes. They were dark and turned inward. "I used to worry Lorelai'd dump me to make you happy."

Emily had hoped for the same. "And?"

"I knew better. I didn't let myself believe it."

"That makes no sense," sniffed Emily. "Do you mind? I have places to go."

He stepped ostentatiously aside, though he was in fact not in her way to start. His truck followed her, as if he were herding her out of town, a thought so absurd she forced a laugh. Naturally, he turned away, to go toward his pathetic little diner, and Emily sped to Hartford, determined to call her lawyer. There were ways to do things, and she _knew_ them. _Belief_ was, at this point, irrelevant.

GG GG GG

The first note, after the rambling letter of sort-of-kind-of-maybe explanation, was two words, on the back of an order slip.

 _I'M SORRY_.

The second, also on an order slip, had read, _I am that guy_.

He dropped them off faithfully, once a week, at the Dragonfly Inn. It wasn't that Luke Danes expected Lorelai to come crawling. Or walking. Or, indeed, meandering. Merely, he would have talked to her about this. He had, when Uncle Louie died (but not enough), and about love (in a roundabout, obscure, cryptic fashion), and when Rachel came back (strangely coherent that time). This was what he _did_. He grunted and grouched until Lorelai teased entire paragraphs out of him (eventually, and yes, he thought to himself, "dirty").

Every week, he put a note or two or three in an envelope with her name on it, stuck it into the inn's mailbox, and scurried home to stew and hope. He'd thought maybe he should avoid federal law violation by leaving the notes on the windshield of Lorelai's jeep, but a good rainstorm could undo quite a bit of effort. If he went to the house, Babette would blab. So he kept tucking them into the mailbox at the inn.

Wondering.

Did she get them?

Did she read them, if she did get them?

What did she think?

Did she care?

Did she use them for toilet paper? Shred them? Compost them? Toss them in the waste with a curse?

After a few weeks, he had graduated from order slips with brief random comments like _I can't breathe_ or _Please drink my coffee again_ , to actual lined notepaper of the kind April used for school.

They worked together companionably, father and improbable daughter, during lulls. That suited Luke well. It took him time to form words when his inner Other-Luke wanted to have a say. He could cook or count change while trying out sentences in his head.

One such note had reflected, ruefully, _I can multi-task if I want to_.

He had a feeling Lorelai was not being told anything she didn't know, or perhaps wasn't being told anything she _wanted_ to know, but he persisted. It was something he hated, yet it was painfully therapeutic. Or, possibly, therapeutically painful.

Jess could make words. Liz could talk. April, who loved science, could chatter all day. Somewhere in the gene pool, the ability for words existed. He had to let his emerge.

He fought it.

Nobody had yet put a surgeon general's warning on the side of Luke Danes: _Warning: The contents may explode under pressure, causing unintended injury._

No one gave him a user's manual to himself that talked him through the troubleshooting process. _In order to uninstall default Grump mode, reattach this wire to this switch, and restart_.

Nobody labeled Lorelai Gilmore, either, of course. _Danger: More fragile than appears, prone to self-destruct_.

Life would be easier if people came with labels the way foods and computers and cleaning solvents did.

He wrote that in the latest note to Lorelai. It was mid-September, and whenever he saw a leaf shading to crimson, he thought of her lips. Yellow reminded him of the goofy characters on her t-shirts. Orange meant a juice she never drank enough of, in his opinion.

"Oooh, a yard sale!" squealed April, examining a flyer with bright interest. As quickly as she blinked, she shoved the flyer away, and said, "Never mind."

"It's okay, April," sighed Luke, and put his head in his hands. "I know Lorelai's selling her stuff. People keep leaving the flyers here." He steadied himself. "Why the interest?"

"Well, Mom gets stuff at yard sales and sells it for a lot more at the store and…"

The idea of Anna Nardini scavenging Lorelai Gilmore's life for profit turned Luke's stomach.

"I thought maybe they'd have books or science stuff, I got a really great chemistry kit, totally unused, for a dollar, once. I'm sorry, Luke. I didn't… I forgot… I mean, I didn't really know her, but…"

No, April had not. She'd been upset that her father was upset, and confused as to why he remained upset, and finally given up on understanding that "weird love stuff". On the other hand, Anna took the news of the break-up with a sort of smug serenity that reminded him of Taylor Doose.

And still, he couldn't let himself hate Anna, because they shared the bubbling miracle of April.

His sister had said wisely, to his fury, "Karma, bro. She's got teeth."

"I'll shut up now," said April in a tiny voice.

Luke's inner Other-Luke prodded him. "It's okay. I didn't let myself think of her that way for a lot of years, and then I blew it, I had my chances to ask her out and I didn't. I let my head get in the way."

"Of what?" asked April with curiosity. Luke marveled. Neither he nor Anna were particularly inquisitive people.

"Sounds stupid. My heart. So when things happened…"

"I heard about it," announced April, pretending to do her homework. Luke knew for a fact she'd completed it. She pushed her glasses up her nose. "People talk a lot. And, um, they were… I mean… I don't… It's not my business, Mom said not to ask, I'm sorry."

"Don't be sorry, she would've been your stepmother," said Luke, proud that he could say the word _stepmother_ without choking. "We made some mistakes. Didn't talk enough about what was going on in our heads. I told her to give me time, give me space, and finally…"

"Time and space are infinite," April filled in for him, taking his words in her literal way, and yet hitting the nail on the head in a metaphysical sense as well.

"They felt like it," he agreed. "And we can go to the yard sale. There might be movies or something."

His daughter viewed him with skepticism, of a peculiar adolescent variety. " _Mom_ will be at that yard sale."

Luke hid the flinch, but not the curling of his hands into fists. "Right. Good point. I'll, uh, make you a salad."

He rushed into the kitchen of his diner.

The yard sale news was bad. A garage of junk, he'd called it, but it was precious junk to Lorelai. Proof of her past, and her freedom from expectations other than her own. Ugly lamps. Mooing clocks. Clothing she'd learned to sew herself. Silly cartoon characters on plates and cups. Some of those might survive the transition to Lorelai's new home, but somehow, Luke doubted _enough_ of them would.

 _What about the chuppah?!_

His pressured contents came near exploding. He would go buy everything, and store it for her!

 _Yeah, great idea, and how'd you react to the boat?_

 _But I'm saving her… Oh._

 _Yeah._

 _Crap._

That debate resolved in favor of restraint, Luke finished making the salad, deposited it in front of April, and worked on his note.

He wrote hastily, almost angrily, _I know why it's not home. Don't sell the quacking clock._

He stuck the note into his pocket.

That deep inner self pointed out that it (okay, _he_ ) had a lot more to say.

He gritted his teeth. There'd be customers for supper soon, and Kirk. He set aside the pen.

A moment later, breathing as if he'd run up flights of stairs, he grabbed the pen, yanked the paper from his jeans pocket and slashed across it with ink.

 _I miss you. I know you're not eating enough. I'm that guy. The one who got stuck and stayed stuck and you said I wasn't that guy and I'm not the same time I am. Jess would laugh at how I write. Please don't sell the stupid clock_.

The bells of the diner door jingled in the way that told him Kirk had arrived.

He wrote, in a panic of honesty, _I didn't want you near April because you'd say things. You'd want to listen to things. I would have to feel and talk about being the guy nobody wants to be a father and Rachel and Nicole cheating and all of it. It was easier to be angry. I know I was the lucky guy. Don't sell the cups with the weird pink cat, either._

"I heard you, Kirk," he lied, and that time, the note stayed in his pocket until the time came to put it where Lorelai might see it, read it, realize that she'd loved a real Luke. He'd simply not allowed that Luke to be the one in charge.

AN: These chapters are read and checked for authentic "guy-ness" by my husband.

GG GG GG


	7. Chapter 7

Disclaimer: Theirs.

AN added pre-posting, post-writing: OMG. Thank you all so much! I've never hit this many reads or follows I think in total for everything ever! I am humbled, terrified, grateful, awed, and mostly hoping that you'll still be here at the end. If nothing else, there'll be moments of food glory, including macaroons...

CHAPTER SEVEN

Running from bad memories wasn't uncommon. People did it all the time. They moved to new towns after tragedy struck. They avoided places that made them sad. Or, in Lorelai Gilmore's case, they moved to a little house a few streets away.

The house suited her. It lacked overt frills, a basic Cape Cod of the classic kind, with its single story, a front door for a nose, an eye-window to each side of that. The house was old enough to have the original central chimney, and no dormers, but there were windows in each gable end of the attic space. The attic was its own single long thin room, bisected by the chimney, perfect for storage. The chimney had long ago been sealed off, leaving Lorelai with a useless fireplace in her living room on one side and her bedroom on the other. Why someone made a wall over it in the kitchen, but not the other rooms, was another quirk, to be embraced.

The eat-in kitchen lay behind the living room, and the bathroom behind the bedroom. A back door opened onto a porch. It was small, she reflected, but the windows gave lots of light, and the attic gave space, and there were no stairs to scare the dog. It had age. It had quaintness. It wasn't falling apart. It was, really, a good place to live.

"You're going to get old and die here," predicted Sookie gloomily. "This is half a house. Barely. Like something out of the Salem witch trials."

"Thanks, glad you like it," replied Lorelai flippantly, and shoved a photo album into the scant space remaining on a bookshelf. "I can afford it, Sook. No renovations needed. Nice little porch, big back yard all fenced in so Paul Anka can Are You En around…"

"He's scared of the word _run_?"

The dog whined and crawled into the useless fireplace, behind the decorative screen Lorelai had placed there. The fireplace in her bedroom held a shoe rack.

"Sookie!" she hissed in reprimand. She pointed urgently at the dog, glaring.

Sookie wilted. "Sorry," she muttered. "Are You En?"

"The move was very traumatizing," defended Lorelai. "And I have two maple trees, and it's pretty this time of year!"

That was true. The scarlet of the maples in autumn exactly matched the scarlet trim and shutters of the little white house. Lorelai had gone small, not dull. She planned to paint the driveway, as well. "Yellow brick road," she said to Sookie, "or something more, y'know, _middle-aged_ and sensible?"

"Compromise," suggested Sookie, recoiling with a grimace at the picture of the yellow-brick-painted driveway in the magazine Lorelai held. "That's disgusting. Maybe stick to classic concrete gray? I think Jackson knows someone who stains concrete, I mean, on purpose, for a living. Maybe something, um, European-ish?"

Lorelai tried to force herself into a cheerful assessment of _European-ish_. "Like what?"

Shrugging, Sookie returned to filing the movies into order in their cabinet. "Terra cotta? That's reddish but not screaming blood red. Do I put _Sleepless in Seattle_ under S for title, or R for Meg Ryan?"

"I'm going with titles right now. I can change it later." Unspoken by Lorelai was the sad thought she'd have nothing better to do. Without the diner in her life, or a man, her social life consisted of taking Paul Anka for walks, work, and town meetings. "I was thinking maybe some concrete geese out front, I saw in this magazine, you can make little outfits for them."

A hand slapped her head.

"Ow!"

Sookie stood over her, wrathful and redder than her hair. "You. Are. Not. That. Pathetic! Concrete geese? In _outfits_?" She shook her hand as if it held a wooden spoon. "Snap out of it, Lorelai, you aren't a lawn goose girl!"

"Sook…"

"Maybe, just _maybe_ , I can handle this… Ugh…"

"House," supplied Lorelai, arms folded, lower lip jutting forward.

"But enough's enough! I get it, we're not getting younger! No kids, no man, boo-hoo-you!" ranted Sookie, shaking a finger now in lieu of kitchen implement. Lorelai ducked as if her best friend held a knife. "But this? Where the heck is Rory going to sleep?"

"I'll buy us bunk beds," snapped Lorelai, standing with care. "Look, I hate this. Half my _life_ got sold for _dimes_! But that house was _Luke_ , and that's _done_ , and I can't do it anymore, okay? I am _done_ , Sookie! I'm done pretending I'm ever going to have this fairy tale! You got it, I'm glad for you, but I screwed up, I don't get it, end of story, okay?"

Breathing hard, the two friends stared at one another.

Sookie teared up. "I hate seeing you like this."

"I hate this," agreed Lorelai, and started to sniffle. "Dammit, I'm done crying! I dunno, maybe I should've just grabbed a man in my twenties, and given Rory a couple brothers and sisters, and if I got divorced, hey, at least I got married, right?"

She'd no idea how tightly she'd huddled into herself until Sookie rubbed a hand on her back, like she was soothing a fretful infant. "Hey. You know you'd never put Rory through that. You wanted the right guy. I just…"

"Say it," sighed Lorelai, and hiccupped a forlorn half-sob.

"We all thought it was Luke."

Lorelai shook her head, not certain what she denied, and navigated her way into her kitchen. She plugged in a small device, poured in tap water, pushed a button, and within moments, had hot water for a cup of tea. She liked that it took only sixty seconds. Much quicker than coffee. She'd embraced tea. It came with caffeine, and interesting names like _oolong_ and _pekoe_. She could also cover its taste more readily than she could mask the flavor of not-Luke coffee.

"Oh shoot," said Sookie uneasily. "I gotta get back to the kitchen before Manny ruins something. Don't forget, lasagna in the fridge, manicotti in the freezer, Jackson's had amazing tomatoes this year."

Lorelai bit back an obligatory "Dirty!" in favor of, "Thanks, Sook. I mean it."

Sookie squeezed her in a tight hug, scolded fondly, "Eat!" and was gone.

Slowly, Lorelai eased open a pretty pink-striped box.

In it were all the notes and letters she'd been given by Michel, with the comment, "He is interfering with our post _again_."

She shuffled them loosely with her fingers. _I miss you_ on an order slip. A snatch of _I want to be the guy_. A cryptic _I didn't tell you about some stuff_.

Every week, she received words that, a year earlier, she would have treasured. Six months earlier, she'd have sobbed in gratitude that he wanted to communicate.

She had rid herself of the quacking clock, as it happened, but the pink face of a certain pop-culture kitty still adorned some of her cups. That had been one of the strangest notes of all. Why did Luke care what she did with the things he found ridiculous?

Someone knocked on her door. Well, thumped. She sighed. Babette would be missed. She'd always known it was Babette. The screechy, "Hey sugar!" was unmistakable. She had new neighbors to learn.

She opened her door, mentally noting she had to get one of those peephole thing-a-ma-whatevers, and lost all capacity to breathe.

Luke and _April_ stood on her doorstep.

Each held a cardboard box.

Luke stared at her. He looked, she thought, like she felt. Kicked in the most painful place possible.

In the back of his truck stood the weathered chuppah.

She gasped out, "What are you _doing_?!"

April cleared her throat and offered timidly, "Um, returning the things you sold that my mom bought for her shop because, after, uh, well, all that, I hate being thirteen, I used to be able to make sentences!"

Lorelai relieved the girl of her box and stepped back. April took that as an invitation to enter, pushing her glasses up her nose and not quite fidgeting.

"I just… Luke and I thought maybe…"

Luke said in a low voice, "I wasn't going to let Anna make money off you."

"Anna didn't do this to us!" spat Lorelai, quickly turned to April and said gently, "And neither did you, sweetie, but you better wait outside, this is definitely R-rated territory."

April said reasonably, "I have an adult with me."

"Then it's NC-17," improvised Lorelai, and smiled her hugest, falsest smile of reassurance.

April shot Luke a dark-eyed death-glare, then went outside with a mutter about adults that was probably rated at least R, if not NC-17.

Lorelai yanked the box from Luke, set it down atop other boxes, and had no chance to yell at him. He got in first.

"Look, I know, the boat thing! Only in reverse! But the chuppah's going to Mrs. Kim, okay? She wanted me to re-finish it since I made it!"

"Okay, and I know she bought it, she put in a bid before the ink on the flyers was dry," Lorelai simmered. She folded her arms, eyes narrowed. "I sold that clock."

"For two bucks," said Luke harshly, "and Anna was gonna charge twenty."

"Good for her, smart… Wait, _twenty_? Oh my God, she overprices worse than I thought! Is it because vanilla is expensive and she paints the place in it? No, never mind, that's not the point, the point was, I get it, but maybe you don't, and…"

"My parents were gonna get divorced when my mom died."

Train of thought thoroughly derailed into a canyon, Lorelai sat down in shock. As it happened, she landed on the arm of her couch, striking her tailbone. "You never said that."

Luke scuffed the floor, looking down, and reminded her vividly of a teen Jess. "Uh. No. It messed us up. Then she died."

Lorelai waited for more information. Since none was forthcoming, she prodded bitterly, "I don't play Twenty Questions with you anymore, Luke."

He flushed. His eyes went to hers, and skipped away, stopped when he saw Paul Anka in the fireplace. He shook his head slightly, and said, "We were getting older and she wanted to get her degree. Dad didn't see why. We were enough." He paused, and adjusted his ball cap unnecessarily. "We were supposed to be enough. The way it was. Liz told me a couple hundred times this past summer, I'd turned into Dad, not Uncle Louie, and, oh geez!" he exclaimed, and dug into his jeans pocket. He handed her a letter. "Here! I wrote it down!"

Not applauding sarcastically took a bit of willpower. Lorelai exhaled, counting to fifty, then set aside the envelope. "Okay. What, exactly, of mine did you buy?"

"We didn't."

Lorelai's eyebrows shot up. She hit her feet. "What do you…"

"Anna has no idea we took that stuff out of her inventory," said Luke, red to his receding hairline. "We, uh, repatriated it."

"April," decided Lorelai, sniggering. "No way you'd use the word _repatriated_."

"Okay, fine, my kid's smarter than me! Yeah, she, uh, went with Anna, and she wrote a list of all of it." Luke's voice dropped to normal volume. He smiled a little ruefully. "She wanted to see you. April. But you had Rory in charge."

"I couldn't do it," Lorelai admitted reluctantly, and twisted a nonexistent ring on her left hand. "I did okay till the night before, then I sorta wigged out. I spent the day with my dad. We went to the movies and ate pretzels, and you don't need to know that."

He glanced at the door.

"Right, time to go," said Lorelai, and politely opened her front door. "Thanks, but I really don't want you and April in trouble with Anna."

Luke whistled suddenly, eyes stuck on something. "Wow. That's the original brickwork in the chimney."

"Yes, the house was built in 1802, you can see the little plaque thing on a rock by the street, from when Taylor and the historical society…"

"Yeah, I remember," shuddered Luke, and put an arm out. April stepped under it, as if she were a crutch. "Don't worry about Anna."

For months now, Lorelai had enjoyed not worrying about Anna Nardini. She bit out a crisp, "I have to, if she wants her legally purchased items back. Or her money."

"She won't. I used my allowance," said April brightly. "To balance her books. See? No problem."

Lorelai could foresee endless problems. "I'll put those boxes on the back porch, just in case. It was nice to see you, April, and thank you for the thought."

The ever-intrepid April shrank. "I had to," she whispered, and ducked behind her hair as much as possible. "I overheard Mom tell my grandmother. About engaged isn't married and it proved she was right."

"Well, your mother was right," said Lorelai with brittle lightness. "Engaged isn't married. It's foliage season, Luke, the diner'll be busy."

Inwardly, Lorelai smacked herself for sounding like Taylor.

Luke nodded. He and April retreated to the street, where his truck was parked. April stopped to read the informative plaque on the granite boulder marking Lorelai's driveway. Lorelai slipped inside, wishing Luke would not look at her. It reminded her of more than she wanted to remember.

GG GG GG

Richard Gilmore was feeling old.

Every single place his agent offered to show him was, without question, meant for a doddering idiot on his last legs. The brochures pictured unrealistically tan and smiling people with white hair, playing tennis, golfing, having what looked like social events his generation had called "mixers". Richard knew the more a brochure promoted such, the less likely it was to be truth.

He turned his attention to the misery of the moment.

"I _am_ willing to negotiate, Richard," said Emily in that terrible, prim voice she used on the Daughters of the American Revolution.

He'd enjoyed the stately house in the dignified old-money section of Hartford. Losing it was the one point on which he stuck in the legal proceedings of separation and divorce. That was a Gilmore house.

On the other hand, and that hand held the pen that signed checks, he could negotiate, too.

"As am I, Emily," he replied finally. His divorce attorney was a sleek barracuda of a woman surnamed Mather (no relation to the famed early Mathers, but no one needed to know that). Emily's was a tortoise-like man called Hutchinson (no relation to the early famed Anne Hutchinson, and quite proud to say so), infamous for gaining money for clients even if the aforesaid client happened to be caught committing adultery on video. Hutchinson plodded along with great determination, no matter what strikes were made at him, but Mather so far had kept him in his shell. Until Emily demanded the house. Not only the house on Martha's Vineyard, but the house in Hartford, and a share of his investment in Lorelai's inn.

"I will concede the Hartford house to you, in its entirety, minus my personal belongings and such Gilmore family heirlooms as are specifically mine."

"You can have that awful bronze bust with my thanks," chirped Emily sweetly.

"On one condition," said Richard.

"Oh?"

"In due time, the house will be left to our granddaughter. It _will_ remain a Gilmore house."

"Or?" sniffed Emily, but he read anxiety in her sudden stiffening of spine.

"Or nothing, Emily. This is not a bargaining session. This is a statement of fact." He took off his glasses, set them down and eased back in the chair, facing Emily across the table as if it were a family dinner. "That is how it will happen."

"And why would you give up the house this easily?" snapped Emily shrilly, twisting at a diamond tennis bracelet he didn't recognize. A comfort purchase, he supposed.

"Because you will drop all claim to any investment in the Dragonfly Inn."

He'd guessed accurately. Emily's breath left her. She flushed. "I will not!"

"Yes, Emily, you will. You will not use our divorce as leverage to involve yourself in our daughter's life where she is not amenable to it."

"How dare you!"

Richard's temper, long frayed, finally broke. "Do not tell me what I may or may not dare! You chose the curtains, the furniture, the plants in the garden, the clubs, the dinners, the charity events, and you did it brilliantly, but you will _not_ order me! Our daughter gave in too much for love, and so did I, which is a rather bizarre similarity to discover, but no more! We sell the Vineyard property, you stay out of the Dragonfly, and you have the Hartford house _on condition you leave it to Rory_."

"But not your dear little Lorelai?" sniped Emily, and Richard dropped into his chair, pleased that his heart did not trouble him, in the medical sense. Figuratively, it ached.

"She is _our_ child, but she would not want the house. Rory, however, would benefit from the connection, the stability, and the prestige associated with such a bequest."

"I gave you a perfect life, Richard!"

A poet might have had the words to explain, but Richard did not. He settled for a rumbled, sympathetic, "If we'd allowed more imperfection, we might not be here. Now. That is the offer. Fight it, and this goes to court, and we both lose face."

"Why did you take Lorelai's side?"

Unsurprised by the question, to his own sorrow, Richard answered calmly, "I took my own. We're done here for today. Accept, and we can part in courtesy."

"If I don't accept?"

"Oh Emily," smiled Richard, tucking his eyeglasses into their case inside his suit jacket. "In the years you've known me, how often have I _lost_?"

He nodded to her attorney, bid them all a good day, and stopped at a water fountain to take his pill on schedule. He then texted Joshua to inform him that he was being a good patient, against all inclinations to be contrary.

"My devil in the blue dress," he said sadly, under his breath, as Emily marched past.

A hand tapped his shoulder. He blinked, gave a genial half-smile to his attorney. "Yes, Miss Mather."

"She'll accept," said Mather, in a high-society accent not even Emily could match. Those not born to it had a tendency to perfect it, he'd learned. "Are you all right, Mr. Gilmore?"

"Define _all right_ ," he said. "Then I will get back to you."

GG GG GG

AN: Nod to American history nuts: Mather. Hutchinson. Early notables of New England.

The Cape Cod style house was popular in colonial times, and re-popularized in the mid-1900s, in larger form. I gave Lorelai an original. As for the backstory of the Danes family? I based it on something a psychologist pal said after I urged her to Netflix binge the show: Everyone on GG acts like a child of divorce. And, yes, people dressing up concrete geese in their yard really happens. I don't own the movies or the movie stars, or so forth, duh.


	8. Chapter 8

Disclaimer: Never mine.

AN: The road to LL doth not run smooth, nor short, nor simple. You'll all hate me more before we're done. It's okay. I hated me, too. The angst factor in this thing is sky-high. The good news is, sweetness will occur, too. There is, however, a reason the word bittersweet puts "bitter" before "sweet". And yes, I feel bad for Emily. I had to pretend she wasn't acted by the amazing Kelly Bishop before I could do this fic.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Emily knew it was her daughter's home because only Lorelai would put weather vanes on the ground, where any rational person would plant some sort of flowers as a break between the house and lawn. There were three vanes to either side of the door, in a bed of crushed white limestone hemmed by scarlet-painted brick. All the vanes _seemed_ to be appropriately antique, but it was difficult to know from the street.

There was a rooster, of course, as there should be. The rest were, to her increasing horror, a rabbit, a horse, a whale, a smiling crescent moon, and a winged pig.

Colorful pinwheels in orange and black lined the reddish-hued walkway. Between the weather vanes rested little pumpkins, painted with goofy faces. On the door hung a wreath of autumn foliage, surrounding a sign that read _Trick or Treat!_

Halloween had never made sense to Emily. Even as a child, she'd not comprehended the point of asking strangers for candy.

She pulled into the driveway, cut the engine, and took steadying breaths. She was glad to see Rory's car. There'd be a witness, a buffer, a hope that she could convince Lorelai to stop this absurd vendetta. She had never raised Lorelai to be vindictive.

She heard music, as she approached the front door. She heard laughing female voices. Frowning, she pushed the button that was, presumably, a doorbell, and heard a tasteful chime.

Her daughter flung open the door, money in hand, and then said, white-faced, "You're not the pizza guy."

"I'm aware. May I?" said Emily, and pushed past Lorelai, into a living room of sorts. "Your doorbell is not annoying."

"The other one scared Paul Anka."

On the couch, Rory sat with that Asian friend of hers, sorting candy between bowls. The goal appeared to be the equal distribution of kinds of tacky, sugary junk.

"I should go," said the Asian girl. "Um. Can I…?"

"Take some, I always overbuy," said Lorelai carelessly, hair in a ponytail, wearing a black t-shirt with a glow-in-the-dark ghost on it. The one Rory wore said _Happy Halloween!_ Without a word to Emily, she began filling a purse with handfuls of candies and treats, hugged the Asian girl (named Lane, Emily at last recalled), and helped her friend to her feet.

Emily blinked, shocked. "You're pregnant!"

"Yeah," said Lane ruefully. "I know. I'm so saving the crunchy bars for myself, I've been craving them all _week_." She smiled warmly at Rory and Lorelai, her expression chilling as she nodded to Emily.

"Wait, Lane, you're…"

Lane flashed a look at Rory. "I'll walk, it's a good day for that. Good for me and all that fun healthy stuff."

She was gone in another instant.

With company gone, Lorelai exploded, as Emily expected.

"Get out, Mom! I'm going to have a _happy_ Halloween, and I don't need the wicked witch showing up to ruin it!"

"Mom," whispered Rory.

"Your father is continuing with the divorce."

As she'd hoped, that caused Lorelai's eyes to fill with tears. "Don't blame that on me!"

"He took your side!"

"There aren't any sides!" yelled Lorelai, and the dog scurried out of the room at high speed. "I was pregnant and you actually said… You said…" Red-cheeked, Lorelai whirled away, arms folded tight across her stomach. "You said Luke was right to ask if it was his. You and Dad, that's your thing. You saying that to me? That's… No. I'm not doing this. You're leaving."

"You cannot ignore me forever."

"Tell you what, Mother," snarled Lorelai, tears turning her mascara into a mess. "I'll ignore you until you admit you were wrong. Up to you."

To buy a moment, Emily commented, "You use inferior cosmetics, no decent mascara should run that easily."

"Oh my God," whispered Lorelai, "you make Joan Crawford look cuddly."

"I resent that."

"Grandma," offered Rory, "I think maybe you should go. You didn't call ahead, and Mom and I have plans."

It took Emily a moment to realize she'd been dismissed.

She stayed. "I'll have the house in Hartford."

"Good, Castle of Doom, suits you," muttered Lorelai.

"Of course, I can't touch the investment in the Dragonfly."

Something left her daughter then, and the room felt abruptly cold. Lorelai's horror tripled. "You were going to ask for a share of my inn?"

Emily went very still. She knew Lorelai well enough to realize that her daughter had been completely unaware of the deal offered by Richard. That Richard saw it as protecting Lorelai. From her own mother.

It was unconscionable. On whose part, she was no longer sure.

She gathered herself, said, "Rory will have the house in Hartford, in due time."

"Okay, great," enthused Rory with far too much energy, and physically stepped between Emily and Lorelai. "Thanks, Grandma, that's nice of you to stop by and tell me!"

"Lorelai Victoria Gilmore," rapped out Emily.

Raccoon-masked by smeared eye make-up, Lorelai rasped to Emily, "You didn't even say you were sorry I lost the baby."

It was a terrible moment among the three, as Rory gasped in comprehension, and Lorelai sank to the couch, and Emily froze, body and mind alike.

After some minutes, Emily admitted, "It did not occur to me, given the circumstances."

Rory hovered between the two a moment, then went to Lorelai. "I think you'd better leave, Grandma."

"I don't stay where I'm not welcome," shrugged Emily, covering her hurt. "Enjoy your plans. I'll see myself out."

She slammed the front door. It felt good.

A shaggy-haired kid on a motorbike stopped behind her Mercedes. He hefted a big square-shaped item and headed for the door.

Emily started her car. She considered. Then, with a tight-lipped smile, she backed into the motorbike, drove forward, reversed again, and maneuvered around it.

"Hey!" the kid yelled, racing over to the scene. "Hey, what the…"

Emily flipped a business card out of her purse, to the ground. "My attorney. Perhaps you can buy soap and a razor with the compensation money."

She drove away, her own mascara unmarred despite a steady flow of tears. She only wanted everything the way it should be. Why did everyone hate her for that?

GG GG GG

It being Halloween, Luke knew not to expect the usual crowd at the diner. The town had returned to its old habits, slowly, but it was Halloween. He was the only place in town offering celery sticks and raw almonds. Not even Kirk came around on Halloween.

The bells over the door jingled. New England's foliage season was over, which eliminated tourists, and Mrs. Kim was off praying for the souls of the heathens in town. That meant Luke had to turn around to see who it was.

He ducked instinctively.

Richard Gilmore was a large man, and he could _loom_. "Ah, Luke," said Richard, smiling far too broadly. "A cup of coffee, please, decaf, however, and a snack of some sort?"

Luke mutely held out the plate of celery sticks and raw almonds.

"Excellent, my cardiologist would approve."

Luke deposited a mug of decaf in front of Richard. He wiped his hands nervously. "Anything else?"

"What would you do to a man who hurt your daughter?"

Luke knew very well what he'd do. It was why he'd ducked.

"Yes, exactly," approved Richard, and patted the table. "Come, sit down, you've time."

Luke swallowed and sat down opposite Richard. He tried folding his arms, decided that was too defensive, and dropped them. Then his hands had nothing to do. He finally picked up a celery stick and picked it into its individual fibers.

"I contemplated this meeting for months. I considered my options. Ruin you financially, destroy your character, all the usual." Richard sipped the coffee. "Ah. Excellent, for decaf. Now, as I was saying, I thought about this. I finally decided to thank you."

The celery stick's pulpy remnants went flying from Luke's hands, and landed on the next table. "Huh?" he squawked.

"Not for hurting Lorelai. No, I'd still like to snap your neck for that." With no smile at all, Richard studied him, and drawled nastily, "Who's the lucky guy. Indeed."

Luke gave up, hung his head and admitted, "Yeah, I'm going to hell for that."

"But your actions helped me see something. That I'd indulged Emily at Lorelai's expense. That it had cost me nothing in comfort, and that I'd allowed my comfort to override my conscience. Not very long ago, I was taught not to take my wife for granted. This, with you and Lorelai, taught me she took my compliance for granted. It's all very messy and emotional." He popped an almond into his mouth, crunched, and nodded. "Quite good."

"Uh," said Luke, afraid that there'd be a mafia-movie moment, involving the words _ba-da-bing-ba-da-boom_ or similar. "Yeah. Uh. Emily, she said it's my fault."

"I don't doubt it."

A group of children ran by, outside, yelling and laughing.

Luke twisted to watch them, his chest aching. He'd missed April's trick-or-treat years. He'd missed the chance to have a child with Lorelai, to take around and coach on the etiquette of begging treats. He'd seen Rory stop by in her costumes for a few years, but she'd given up early, as befit her dignity, and her loyalty to Lane. Her best friend couldn't go, so Rory didn't.

He jerked his attention back to his only diner patron, to see Richard looking equally wistful.

The question came without his usual filters interfering. "How old was she? When she had to stop?"

"Seven. She was seven when she could no longer attend Halloween events. She never did go from one house to another, in a costume, holding a plastic pumpkin, saying _trick-or-treat_ all in a breath," replied Richard sorrowfully. "There were parties, of course. Never that. Never the freedom and excitement. When did you stop?"

"Twelve," said Luke, "but I went around with my kid sister a couple more years. Liz never looked before she crossed the street."

"I've an entirely inappropriate question to ask you."

Luke shrugged. He began destroying another stick of celery. "Shoot."

"If you could go back in time, one year, would you do it differently?"

"I wouldn't go back," said Luke promptly, startling Richard into a scowl. "Time travel doesn't work that way. If you go back and change what you screwed up, then you have no reason to go back, so the event never happens, so you never go back to fix it, and it happens anyway."

Richard blinked several times, rubbing a thumb along the mug. "Good Lord."

Reddening, Luke scratched his neck. "Ah. Uh. Science fiction. It's, y'know. There's actual science in some of it. The thing is, Mr. Gilmore, I think it's like my sister and her addiction. Till you hit rock bottom, you don't realize how far you've gone from where you thought you'd be. Or who you'd be. I needed to hit rock bottom." He swallowed around a lump in his throat. "I wish I hadn't hurt anyone, especially Lorelai. It's…" His hands shaped something in the air. "It's like you said. Comfort. Conscience. I got into this comfort zone twenty years ago and I… Geez, I dunno."

"And your conscience did its best but you were very good at ignoring it?" suggested his one-time prospective father-in-law, a little too silkily for Luke's liking.

"Yeah," he admitted bluntly. He watched with a pang as a mother with two small kids ushered them along the sidewalk, hurrying them to the children's party at Miss Patty's.

"What have you done about it?"

"I'm trying," answered Luke unhappily, and shook his head. He knew how pathetic that sounded.

"As am I. And I can say, with confidence, that if you continue to try, you have much better odds than I of recovering happiness."

Luke's breath hitched. "What…"

Richard rose. "I was given to understand you write to Lorelai about these issues."

Luke nodded, dry-mouthed. "Yeah."

Richard tossed down a five-dollar bill. "You can rebuild trust, and love, if both parties are willing to forgive, and to re-learn each other. You have to re-win each other. If it is one-sided?"

"It falls apart," said Luke, and handed back the money. "On me."

Richard folded the bill into his wallet. "Quite generous of you. If I may offer advice?"

Luke nodded mutely, breaking into a cold sweat of hope.

"The first gesture of trust will have to come from you."

Luke swallowed hard. "Thanks," he managed to say.

Richard nodded, and went into the night, smiling at some children passing by in a cluster, followed by a woman calling, "Slow down!"

Luke sank to the nearest chair. It was November in a matter of hours, his darkest month.

Then again, what better time to let Lorelai see he was doing his best to shed habits of a lifetime, to let that not-Uncle-Louie Luke be _him_? Entirely, not just in some inner mental closet?

GG GG GG

AN: There really are weather vanes likes those I described. My uncle has the flying pig on his barn, in fact.


	9. Chapter 9

Disclaimer: Not mine

CHAPTER NINE

Lorelai Gilmore had a new motto: _Who I am isn't where I live or what I wear_.

She had written it in big looping neon pink letters on her bedroom ceiling, so it was the first thing she saw every morning and the last thing she saw before turning off the bedside lamp. She also had her motto inked in permanent marker on an index card propped on her desk at the Dragonfly Inn. She did truly enjoy quirky and kitschy things, but she felt as if she'd begun to free herself when she moved into the little Cape Cod house and painted those words on her ceiling. The ghost of Emily Gilmore's criticisms sounded fainter, and sillier, with those words in front of her.

Now, she stood on a ladder, hair covered by a kerchief, re-painting the motto in a decisive rich blue. As she worked, she hummed along with the Ramones on a mix CD that was a house-warming gift from Lane. "Twenty-twenty-twenty-four hours to go," she sang softly, "I wanna be sedated, somethin' somethin' somethin' oh-oh, I wanna be sedated…"

Her doorbell chimed. The original had been a clong-clang guaranteed to wake the dead. The new one, helpfully installed by a hired handyman used at the inn, was bit more like ding-ding-a-ding- _tink._

She ignored it. She was in her zone, she expected no company, and she wasn't about to stop painting to the Ramones for Girl Scout cookies. Much as she loved cookies.

The front door was hit by a battering ram.

Lorelai yelped, lost her balance, and landed on the bed, paintbrush, paint tray and all. Fortunately, she'd covered it in lots of clear plastic, along with the rest of the room. Unfortunately, she still ended up with blue paint all over herself.

She rose, like magma from a volcano, and prepared to commit mayhem.

"Oh geez," came from her bedroom door.

Lorelai seethed. She was also, perversely, grateful that blue looked good on her.

"I, uh, you didn't, um, answer, and… Yeah, I screwed up," said Luke in a small, cowed voice. "You okay?"

"I," stated Lorelai, pointing her paint roller at him, "am fine. You, buddy, you're _dead_. Or arrested. Give me a second to decide."

"I, well, you always answer the door or yell out and…"

Lorelai's glare silenced him. "And what if I'd been in my bedroom doing something that was none of your business?"

He paled, flushed, and looked ill.

"Not that, you pervert!" she yelled. "I meant… Y'know, never mind, shoo! Go away! Out, out! Begone! Wait."

Luke hadn't yet moved. "Okay?" he offered.

Lorelai took several calming breaths, then asked through gritted teeth, "Why are you in my house? I locked the door. Both doors."

"When I knocked, I heard a yell, so I looked under the frog for the key."

Lorelai hung her head. "Memo to self," she muttered angrily, "new hiding place. Stupid frog. Stupid key."

Luke was studying her ceiling. He seemed transfixed.

Rolling her eyes, Lorelai shuffled cautiously over the plastic, and stopped. She had no way to get to the bathroom without dribbling paint through the living room and kitchen. If her house had any downside, it was that the central chimney and old floor plan meant she didn't have a door directly from her bedroom to her bathroom, despite their shared wall. She meant to put one in, eventually, but there was a small problem of the bathtub taking up that wall. Charm came at a price, and the price was convenience.

"On my couch, there is a very long roll of plastic," she told Luke coldly. "Lay it on the floor so I can go clean up. Now, please."

"Are you sure?" hesitated Luke, tearing his eyes from her ceiling, and down to her paint-slathered torso. The paint was causing her shirt to cling.

"Hey! Eyes up, buster! Plastic! Now!"

Luke nodded, and removed himself from the bedroom door.

Lorelai looked at her shorts and shirt. Her legs. Her arms. She swore under her breath.

"Done!" said Luke.

"Leave!" ordered Lorelai. "Just… I have to clean up, and I don't need you lurking around. And put the key back under the frog. I'll find a different place for it, just…"

"Right," said Luke, and the vinyl sheeting crinkled underfoot as he left.

She plodded to the bathroom. She dropped the shorts and underwear into the trash, used nail scissors to start a cut in the t-shirt that allowed her to peel it off without pulling it over her head, and deposited it and her bra with the other ruined clothes. After turning her loofah blue, three wash-and-rinse cycles of her hair, and scrubbing until the water ran cold, she felt safely less like a Smurf. A quick check in the mirror showed all well, and she cuddled into her bathrobe, trudged across the kitchen to the laundry room. Originally, four tiny rooms had come off the big eat-in kitchen, when it was built. Two became the bathroom at some point. One became a laundry room. The fourth held the water heater, breaker box, and similar. It was nice, to have a short walk to the dryer to find clean clothes. She pulled them on, and turned to the task of cleaning up vinyl-plastic-whatever sheeting.

It was all gone, and Paul Anka was hiding somewhere. That meant one thing.

" _Luke_ ," she called. "You can come out. It's safe. I won't kill you. Yet."

He emerged from her living room, rubbing his neck. "I, uh, it was kinda my fault, so I…"

"Thank you," said Lorelai gravely. "Tea? I promise nothing terrible will happen."

"Sure," he said, looking puzzled, and sat at the same old table in a very different kitchen. "I like the thing on your ceiling."

Lorelai shrugged as she waited for her little gadget to make hot water. She gave the mug to Luke, and pointed. "Tea caddy on the table. Take your pick."

He chose at random. She leaned back, waiting for more water to be heated in sixty seconds.

"Who we are," said Luke, "should show in what we do."

"Yeah, that's been a problem for me," shrugged Lorelai, grateful when her gadget beeped. She could turn away, hide her blush and her humiliation. "I don't put on a very good show, so to speak. I mean, I do, because hey, I gotta perform or nobody likes me, but with us. With us… I was too scared to lose my chance with you, too scared to keep being _me_ , and I didn't know how to be… Well, whatever it was you needed." She was proud that she spoke without her voice shaking. Her hands were another matter. "I… I have to… Apologize. I am _so_ sorry, Luke. I was so focused on the idea of a wedding, of that whole package, and I made some big mistakes. Max, for one. Turning into a doormat last year, for another." She laughed humorlessly, studying her mug of hot water as if it held cosmic wisdom. "I had it in my head, you knew who I was under all the _show_ , all the… I dunno, I guess it just comes down to anxiety? Nerves? Whatever."

"Insecurity," supplied Luke.

Heat crept up her neck to her face. "I didn't even realize how much I didn't know you, till you wrote all those notes."

Luke's voice was uneven when he replied, "I didn't let you know."

"Well, I didn't let you know how I felt, how I _really_ felt. I thought, at the Vineyard… After the party…" She trailed off, and finally chose a tea, tore the packet, dunked the bag into her mug. She smiled awkwardly at him. "See, if I knew then what I know now? From the notes you kept sending? Maybe I'd have known how to say the right thing or… Maybe I should've known anyway… Or talked to Liz on how to talk to you. I don't know. I felt like whatever I did, it was gonna be the _wrong_ thing to do. No matter what I did. That's not something I handle too well."

The tone of Luke's snarled, "Emily," jolted Lorelai into meeting his gaze.

"It's not my mother's…"

"Look, growing up, my parents loved us. We screwed up, we could still get hugs and approval and everything I want to give April and missed out on," he began, and she eased back, recognizing a rant in progress. "I wrote all that to you, but the point is, you come off so strong, so independent, I figured… No, I _let myself_ figure I could put you away till I was ready. I stuck myself in a good deep rut, and you showed me there was a way out, and I turned my back. Because that wasn't the way it should be. It should be the way I wanted it. I'm the one who shouldn't have to… I don't know what! I don't even know anymore!"

"Luke, calm down, you're scaring the dog," said Lorelai in her most reasonable customer-service voice, and it worked. He sat down and stopped gesticulating wildly all over her kitchen. Paul Anka, however, remained in the living room, whining softly.

They sipped tea.

"Thank you for cleaning up all the paint and plastic," said Lorelai finally. "You didn't have to do that."

"My mess, I should clean it up."

"Oh God," she groaned, "here we go, hero-martyr Luke. Can't you just be a person? Say, hey, I scared you and wanted to do a nice thing and clean up because me scaring you is why you got paint all over? _I_ am not _your mess_ to _clean up_! I'm _mine_! I lost you, I lost our baby, I lost my only hope that my mom would ever think I'm not a slutty screw-up, do you know how much I hate how much of my life was trying to make her happy while I was making sure I was happy when there is _no_ way to do both?"

She paused for breath, and squeaked out on the exhale, "Sorry. Misdirected that a little."

Luke stood. She shook her head, sniffling. So much for dignity, and conversation. Here she was, Lorelai-the-idiot Gilmore, blabbing out what no one wanted to hear or know, and yelling at all the wrong people. She'd turned into her _mother_. The thought made her grab her tea mug to hide her shudder.

"I wanted to have everything but not have anything change," said Luke, removing her mug from her hands before she spilled hot tea on herself.

"That almost made sense," she snuffled, and turned away because her tears were irritating her. She had hoped to be past crying by now. "Well, I wanted to have the whole package, but I _really_ wanted to have a marriage with you, and kids with you, and that's different. And that doesn't make sense."

"No, it does. I'll let you… Y'know. But I came over to ask if I could spend my dark day…" He stopped, harrumphed. "If I could spend the anniversary of my dad's death. With you. Having this kind of talk, only no paint."

Too tired for subtlety, Lorelai settled for a blunt, "Why?"

His eyes squinted up. "Because… What I wear and where I live… That's not who I am. And I know stuff but I don't let myself believe it."

That made no sense to her whatsoever. On the other hand, life rarely did make sense. "Separate cars," she said sternly. "But okay. I'll clear my calendar."

He flashed a small warm smile, the one she'd once thought was only for her, and said softly, "Thanks. I'll, uh, leave a note. When and where and stuff."

She nodded, and saw him out in silence.

Paul Anka crept onto the couch with her.

"I wish I could quit him," she told the dog, and buried her face in his fur while she cried.

GG GG GG

Richard Gilmore arranged a last book on its shelf in the study.

He looked around the room. Warm-hued wood below the wainscoting, shelves above, a deep-set bay window suitable for a cozy seat, had sold him on the entire house. It was a typical old Colonial brick house, rich with woodwork grown dark from age, walls in neutral shades that allowed a decorator to install deep-hued draperies and upholstery. He owed Lorelai thanks for finding the woman, and the discounts on certain pieces from the humorless Mrs. Kim. Simple was better, for a man of his age, and it felt refreshing to have such space made to his order.

A service came in to clean thrice a week, and twice a day he received meals from a caterer. He considered a hot breakfast necessary to his day, but lunch was easily obtainable at some café. Supper, too, was a needed hot meal. They came in the back, to the kitchen, and assembled ingredients. He was served at table. He left the dishes by the sink for the caterer to retrieve. So far, it worked very well,

Perhaps his favorite outdoor feature of the home, other than the dignified oaks shading it, was the patio. It looked over a sloping lawn that ended at a large creek. On a warm afternoon, he could sit and ponder the movement of wind and water while pretending to read a book.

Richard had no idea how _tired_ he was, until he retired from Hartford society life. Oh, he went to the club for golf and a brandy now and then, but the endless rounds of suppers, parties, fundraisers, openings had worn him more than he'd known. It had irked him immensely to be shoved out of business, yet he did not miss the piles of invitations. A few outings a week, and he was quite content.

Rory walked into the study, carrying cups of tea. "Here we go, Grandpa! Are you sure about…"

"Quite," he interrupted. "Thank you, my dear, this hits the spot. I shall enjoy giving occasional presentations, and a bit of consulting, but I do think re-learning a career at my age might be more stress than I can currently endure."

Rory's face fell. He hated that. Her encouragement to examine options like teaching had been welcome. He simply didn't have the needs he used to have, and discovered that lounging about his own home was deeply different from the same at the Hartford mansion he'd ceded to Emily. He did not feel limited here, as if portions of the house were not truly _his_ , but belonged only to social gatherings, or to Emily. And, as he explained to Rory, "I have not made my own schedule in far too long. I intend to enjoy it. I can always reconsider."

"Okay, Grandpa, we just want you to be happy."

"And I, you," said Richard tranquilly. "Your mother is doing well?"

Rory's eyes were blue swamps of worry. "I wish he'd leave her alone. I wish Grandma would leave everyone alone. I love Grandma, but…"

"Yes, sometimes love feels more like a noose than wings," agreed Richard and patted her hand. "Now, now, my dear. This at least derailed the plan to put your name on a building at Yale."

Rory squeaked in a breath. "You were going to do _what_?"

"In my defense, we meant it as a show of our pride in your accomplishments," gulped Richard, unaware of what nerve he'd struck, but apparently unable to avoid it. Rory blazed up in a gesturing, pacing fury.

"Grandpa! I don't even… What did I… I mean, okay, buy some books for the library but a _building_?" Rory spun, and looked remarkably like her mother in a temper. "You don't give more money to Yale with my name on it, not one penny more, than you invested in Mom's inn! That's it! Not one plugged nickel more!"

"Plugged nickel," repeated Richard, bemused by the archaic phrase. "What exactly upsets you in this?"

"Because! It does! Mom! Grandma!" She flapped her hands inarticulately, then balled them on her hips. "Okay, let me put this in Paris words."

Bewildered, Richard leaned back in the fine leather-clad chair and inquired, "French?"

"Geller," snapped Rory, stomped a foot, and took a breath. "What we have here is a classic paradigm of family dysfunction, in which triangulation dynamics apply because the fourth party, namely you, has remained uninvolved, allowing two against one to apply, and, if pushed to join the triangle because I left it, you never chose your daughter over your wife." She huffed. "There. How was _that_?"

"I think we'll donate to the psychology department," said Richard unthinkingly. "Triangulation dynamics?"

"Given three people, two will gang up on a third. Paris did a huge paper and presentation at Chilton about it," Rory replied, and bit her lip. "Um. Sorry I raised my voice. I can't really get into that Paris mindset without the adrenaline."

"Understandable. Sit down."

She did, and clutched her mug of tea.

"Four of us doesn't allow for a triangle," mused Richard, giving her time to regain her composure.

"It does if the fourth person stays out of it. It's almost like three against one, except… Well, two of those are the same, so it's still the same, and I really messed this up, but you get the idea?"

"I do." A rush of blood threatened to overwhelm Richard, a rare expression of shame. "And now?"

"Now I don't know. Grandma's alone, you're alone, Mom's alone…" Rory finished the tea in a gulp. "We have Sunday dinners with you and I have Friday dinners with Grandma and this feels worse than watching kids with fathers show up at school, because I could at least pretend my dad wanted to be there, and I'm too old to pretend now."

Touched, Richard studied his granddaughter, and announced, "Yes, we're all too old to pretend. That hasn't stopped us. What do you say we pretend for the rest of today that there are no problems whatsoever in the world, and sample the pumpkin squares the caterer left, and read the classics?"

Rory flew to her feet. "Pumpkin squares? I _love_ your caterer!"

Richard chuckled to himself. He swirled the remaining tea in the mug, wishing it was brandy, but some things had to change besides his address. He only hoped that change was also _progress_.

AN: Triangulation dynamics is a real thing. It's essentially what Rory said. Two against one, out of three, in some way.


	10. Chapter 10

Disclaimer: Repeating myself. Not mine.

To GUEST reviewer who pointed out the creepy factor... Yes, I would have filed a TRO, but in Stars Hollow, it is magically understood that Luke is incapable of being a stalker, or being bad or abusive.

AN: Posting Chapters Ten & Eleven today, as the latter flows immediately from the other in this fic's timeline.

CHAPTER TEN

"I'm awful," mourned Lorelai Gilmore. "I keep talking about this whole day with Luke coming up, and you've got so much worse going on."

"Now, now," said Richard, and Emily knew without seeing him that he'd be irritated, but not yet out of patience. "It does me good to have company in misery. I'm glad you will have a day with Luke. You may find answers, resolution, that wonderful being they call closure."

"You think?" came a small uncertain reply from Lorelai.

Emily fumed. Here she sat, _hiding_ , from her own husband and daughter. Estranged husband, yes, and estranged daughter, but the humiliation of needing to hide scorched as hotly as estrangement. The one tiny comfort was that the location meant she could pretend her presence was accidental. Richard remained predictable. He preferred a quiet little lunch at a downtown Hartford restaurant with booths, colored glass panels providing visual privacy between the adjacent booths. She knew for a fact he would claim a business lunch and then come to that particular location to settle in for a quiet hour with a crossword puzzle. Several wives of men who knew Richard had been sure to tell her he did that. Her retaliation was, of course, to inform them of where their men were on so-called _business lunches_.

Information was power. Emily refused to be helpless. Thus, if she must have an insipid tea with a bland salad, to obtain that power, then she would do so. She had been to the restaurant before, for quiet one-on-one chats with some of her peers. Its proximity to business and culture alike gave her ample excuse. She could claim a meeting with a lawyer, an accountant, about a charity event, and was finishing her lunch. She had her planner with her, open, and a pen ready, the perfect picture of self-contained, busy oblivion.

Of course, it helped that she knew this lunch would occur, and when, by overhearing (not at all eavesdropping) on Rory's end of a conversation with Lorelai at the previous Friday night dinner. Rory had been checking her schedule, to see if she could attend this lunch. It gave Emily some sour satisfaction to know that Richard couldn't take _both_ girls entirely away from her, naturally, but the contact was useful in other ways.

"How _are_ you, Dad? For real, not the stuff you tell Rory. I'm a big girl."

"I feel rather strange discussing my divorce from your mother."

"Oh," said Lorelai in that cowed little voice Emily wanted to slap out of her. For a headstrong girl, Lorelai could be remarkably and infuriatingly timid.

"Lorelai," sighed Richard, "this is not about your character, but my reluctance to upset you."

Emily smirked, awaiting the quip about the horrible inability of the elder Gilmores to care about upsetting her.

"Well, I don't want you to be upset, either, Dad. If you need to talk… I mean, yeah, she's Mom, and I'm freaked out, because if you guys can't last, I don't know if it's even possible, but believe me, I know about wondering how your life goes all…"

Emily assumed some gesture here.

"And you're like, wow, what's solid if that's not."

"I suppose the troubles we had before should have warned me."

"I hear that," replied Lorelai with a sigh.

"Yes, leaving well enough alone works to a point, until nothing is well, or enough, I suppose."

Lorelai's laugh was short, bitter. "Wow. Who knew? I take after you."

Richard's booming laugh was far warmer, more sincere. Emily wanted to grit her teeth. "Yes, you take after me, and you certainly can be like Trix."

"Good or bad? Like silly rabbit, or…"

Another chuckle from Richard had Emily clenching her hand around her salad fork. "You've her way of turning situations sideways when you want."

Lorelai snickered. "Annoying people, you mean."

"I'd rather say that you have some of the same _joie de vivre_. I recall one incident in my childhood when Trix declared quite loudly in the middle of the Louvre, no less, that she knew art, she knew what she liked, and a particular statue was neither art nor likeable. In that way of hers, you know, very stately and determined and yet with that twinkle in her eye."

Emily remembered. She had received insults galore from Trix, those grand pronouncements accompanied by a smirk that challenged her to respond in kind, risk losing Richard's good graces. How that old bat would enjoy their impending divorce!

"You have your mother's need to own a room."

The silence crashed like breaking china.

Emily bent her head, blinking back tears and a blush of anger. He made her sound like some two-penny diva.

"It fascinated me, that way she had of possessing attention, of keeping it, but I did not realize how she needed it. Or did not care, perhaps. I was always impressed by her determination to succeed, to enact a _vision_. You have that from your mother, you know, as much as you have it from me."

Emily burned with outrage. _Need_? He was one to talk, the big baby!

A sniff, and then Emily knew Richard would be dabbing his eyes. "I do not know what you will find during your day with Luke. You may learn he is, in fact, not the man you believed him to be. That you cannot trust again. That your love is broken beyond repair. That the price of regaining the relationship is too high for you to continue to pay."

"How will I _know_?" cried Lorelai softly. "Without getting hurt again?"

"You have good instincts, and you've done very well following them."

A shaky breath was Lorelai, no doubt about to be emotional in public, without consideration for the spectacle and her dignity and her family's reputation, per usual.

"I can't condone every choice you've made."

"And he ruins the moment," said Lorelai sharply. "I know, I know, I screw up, I get that, how did this end up about my failures?"

"Because you assumed it did!"

Emily twitched. Her fork landed amidst the salad, irretrievable due to the dressing in which it fell with a most un-genteel _splat_.

"I was going to say," he went on more quietly, "I doubt you would condone all of mine, did you know them. Now, let me drop you at your car, and you can go back to work, and I can go to the reading of Mark Twain. Nothing brings Twain to life quite like a live reading."

"Thanks, Dad. For lunch, and listening."

After she was certain it was safe, Emily called for her check and bustled out of the restaurant. Her emotions were torn between jealousy of her daughter's new relationship with Richard, and outrage that Richard continued to pretend Emily had done something wrong.

Her eyes, however, told her that things were different than they'd been. Perhaps more than Emily realized. The plates not yet cleared from Richard's booth bore no traces of grease, only healthy fresh greens, and fish, eaten voluntarily. Without duress.

Emily shivered as she stepped into the gray November air. Her world had changed, and she did not dare admit that it frightened her.

GG GG GG

Where to spend the dreaded day took up more of Luke's thoughts than he felt it needed to. Once, maybe, he could have locked them into the house for a weekend, but neither house nor weekend was possible. A trip sounded great, but to where? The town square had been more or less given to him in the break-up, with Lorelai only venturing to town meetings, which he rarely attended. The inn was wholly Lorelai's. The weather was bleak, which ruled out impromptu beach time. At last, Luke gave up on finding _one_ place, and started the day at the cemetery.

"Hey," he said to Lorelai, surprised to discover she'd beaten him there, and found his parents' graves as well. Then again, Uncle Louie was buried there. She wasn't completely ignorant of the spot.

"Good morning."

She was openly fragile now, Luke noticed. The energy no longer radiated from her. He said without thinking, "I guess it was just the coffee."

"Oh, I'm the same old me," warned Lorelai, gloved hands cupped around a travel mug. "Less flamboyant, is what my mother would say."

"Why?" asked Luke thoughtlessly.

"My dad said I need attention, and I didn't like that. I didn't like that he's right." She shrugged, sipped from the mug.

"No, I meant… You're not even trying to smile."

"You have a date," observed Lorelai, turning into a damp wind. It snapped pink into her cheeks.

Luke stared cluelessly at her, then understood. He was wearing nice jeans, a pullover she'd bought him back when Rachel came to town, and he'd shaved. He'd even left his ball cap at home, and was wearing a warm coat that didn't look like it had seen combat. "Oh. No. Uh. This. It's. I." He cursed internally, blurted inelegantly, "My old coat zipper broke and this was about the same price as fixing the old coat so I got it."

That was wrong, he found immediately. Once, she'd have sewn in a new zipper for nothing. No, not for nothing. For friendship. For him.

He could see her eyes, and the statement in them, that he didn't give up old things, ever, without fighting, ranting, raving. Except her. No, that wasn't in her eyes. That was his guilt.

He ruefully admitted, "And April hid the old one, she said I looked like a hobo."

Lorelai's mouth curved upward. "Amazing what a daughter can do when all others fail."

He flushed. He felt _normal_. In a good way. Safe. Comfortable. It freaked him out. "Yeah, well, I think she donated it to an animal shelter or something, she wouldn't tell me. She thought I'd go get it back."

"Smart girl."

That stung a little, and Luke bit down on his reply, took a measured breath.

"So this whole Cyrano thing," stated Lorelai a little unevenly. "I like the notes. I like knowing…" She trailed off, and he heard her unspoken _what I should've been told._ "I heard you're an uncle, congratulations. Is it true they named the baby…"

"Yeah. Doula." He grimaced in an attempt to smile. "I've held her. She's… Y'know." He held his hands out in cups, to show Lorelai. "Tiny. You were right. About the way babies smell. It's a good kind of bad smell."

Lorelai shook her head. "You haven't changed her diaper yet."

"God, no."

"How's April?"

That ended the awkwardness, by starting anguish. "She's good. Anna, uh, Anna wants to move to New Mexico. Take care of her mom."

"What's your lawyer say?"

Luke reddened. "Ah. I didn't want to, y'know. Make a big fight and court battle. April's a kid, she shouldn't go through that."

"No, she shouldn't, but take it from me, I let Chris use that against me. Don't make it hard for Rory meant make it easy for Chris, and, I guess okay when she's young, but… Okay, let me try again. April's thirteen, not ten, and I think she can handle the idea of you asking for a formal custody and support arrangement." Lorelai abruptly stepped back, turned away slightly, showed him her profile. "Sorry. Not my business. Or situation. I knew this was a bad idea."

Pleased she still rambled, if not as extensively, Luke offered a simple, "Thank you. For the advice. I never got that. About you, and Rory's dad. It looks a lot different now."

Lorelai drank from her travel mug. He smelled a floral tea of some kind, before she twisted the lid to keep the heat from escaping.

Luke waded into the metaphorical deep end. "Anna doesn't like it. I dunno. We had one lunch and it was okay, then ever since, it's like some kind of weird war zone, and I hate it." He repeated, with a thump on his leg by a clenched fist, "I _hate it_."

Startled, Lorelai looked at him, and it was the expression that meant anyone could ask her for a favor, talk to her, and she'd be kind. Which was, for Luke, all it took.

"I hate it," he snarled and pointed at the grave markers, "because I lived that crap, and I don't care if you're a teenager, you don't treat your kid's other parent like they're some kind of monster just because you're not getting your way! You _don't do that_!"

Lorelai nodded a little, and suddenly, Luke could talk. It was not a rant, either, which was rather surprising to him. Then again, his inner Other-Luke had a lot to say, and had practiced talking to Liz, to his reflection, to Lorelai by way of notes.

"They did that. My dad did that. Mom was great. We loved her. I think back and now I can't figure out why it was so damn wrong for her to get a college degree if she wanted. We weren't in diapers, she wasn't abandoning us to die in an alley. Dad talked that way, and he was this _hero_." Luke paused, smiled painfully at Lorelai. "The hero-martyr, you said. Then she died before we had a chance to see her side of things, or maybe she just didn't tell us because she didn't think she should involve a couple of kids in that mess. It doesn't matter. What matters is, she never got her say. We heard Dad talk about it for _years_ , Lorelai, for _years_ , even after she died, and it just… She loved us, then she must have stopped, the end, that's how… And it isn't true. It's the story we were told."

"I'm sorry, Luke," she said softly, and put a gloved hand on his sleeve, very lightly.

"Dad was who we had left, so we hung onto him. That's why this day _hurts_. I tried so hard to keep him alive." He glanced at her, self-conscious. "You told me once, you needed a good wallow before you could feel better. Thing is, I didn't let myself feel better. I do miss Dad. I hate that missing him means it feels like I can't miss Mom, too. And now I've got a kid whose mother wants me to disappear, and I have no idea what the hell to do."

She offered her travel mug. He sniffed, sipped. It did have a green-floral taste, but not unpleasant. Rich, to his surprise. He glanced at her, and she explained, "My dad found this boutique tea shop, you can buy all sorts of crazy tea blends. There's even one with blueberries."

"It's good." He returned her travel mug, hunched against the cutting cold promised by the wind. "I'm living it all again, only I'm the parent. Scared that if I breathe wrong, it's all over. You never did that to Christopher, I figured you couldn't understand what I was going through. That feeling like you never do anything right."

Lorelai snapped her mouth shut, hard, and blinked rapidly at the sky. "No snow yet," she said blandly.

Luke wondered what he'd said wrong. Then it hit him. When had Lorelai ever felt she could do anything right? Other than Rory? And even that faith was rattled badly by the idiocy of Rory's yacht theft, dropping out.

He said, "I really only didn't tell you because you finally looked like you could breathe again. I meant to give it a couple of days or weeks at most. Then… I dunno. I looked for reasons."

"I didn't call you out. I always used to, I stopped. We had this conversation, I recognize this tree, is the whole day going to be repeating ourselves?"

Luke twitched, startled. She was angry, yes, but also pleading. Not in a cringing-crawling way, but as if she wanted mercy.

"No," he said stonily. "I want to know why you didn't tell me yourself."

AN: "Silly rabbit, Trix are for kids" was a tagline to a commercial for those of Lorelai's generation in the US. Why a rabbit wants to eat sugar-coated corn-puffs in allegedly fruit flavors remains, to me, a mystery. Mark Twain House in Hartford is a popular place to visit for the literary set. I _hope_ they have live readings of Twain.

The teas mentioned really exist. The café is based on one in a small town I can't remember the name of, on some road trip, at some point. If you're curious, Lorelai's particular tea blend has essence of mango, cornflower, marigold, and more. (Because I'm drinking some as I write. Nazdrowie, siostra!)


	11. Chapter 11

Disclaimer: Again. Not. Mine. Ever.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Lorelai glowered at Luke. "I wanted to tell you about the baby," she snapped icily, and shook her head in disbelief. "Rory did that, not me. I was going to tell you when I felt well enough, physically, but Rory decided to tell you before I was even out of the freaking hospital, don't you _dare_ try to make that my fault!"

"Hey!" yelled a red-faced Luke. "Don't yell at me like I'm your mother!"

"Don't treat me like I'm _yours_ , Freud Boy!"

Luke made a gesture toward the ground. "Can't you respect _anything_? You don't even respect the dead!"

"Oh, how about promises?" sneered Lorelai, then sang snidely, "Luke says he's all in, Luke says he's all out, his word is hocus bogus…" She flapped her arms and spun in a circle. "That's what he's all about!"

"That's the chicken dance and don't dance on my family's graves!"

Lorelai went cold. It hurt. It being all of her body, soul, heart, mind, _it_ -ness. The It of Lorelai was in pain. She shuddered once, and said flatly, "Actually, that was the grave of…" She peeked. "Silas Entwhistle. Okay, I apologize, Mr. Entwhistle. And you, Mr. Danes?" She shook her head at Luke like she would at a poorly dusted shelf (shades of her mother, God help her!) or an unbalanced accounting sheet (she was her father, too?!). "You can sit here and cry all you want, but the grown-ups in this conversation are going to work now. We didn't all inherit a building from our parents."

She stalked off, seething. She had awakened an hour early, fretted over her appearance, opted for business casual just in case, and now wished she was wearing something that flounced solely for the effect.

Also, she really wished she'd thought to make that crack about inheriting buildings five years earlier. She hated when Luke threw her upbringing at her as a weapon. He lived in a building, fully paid for, that his dad left him. But no, she growled to herself as she braked at the stop sign, lest she join the quiet dead on the low hill. No, Luke was forever stuck on the fact she was raised by rich people. That she'd been more impoverished since age eighteen than he ever had been? Irrelevant. Fact, she snarled, was not anyone's best friend, but Luke could have let it in the house once in a while. A house, she noted bitterly, he inherited free and clear. She had a mortgage on hers.

When she entered the lobby, Michel's languid complaint stopped before it made it past his lips. He snapped to attention, alert, oriented, with a crisp, " _Bon jour,_ Lorelai."

"Oh, there's no _bon_ in this _jour_ , Michel," she warned him, and shut her office door. She dropped her purse in a drawer. She hung her coat on its hook. She sat down. She saw her index card. _Who I am…_

 _Is a big stupid loser!_

She came very near tearing the card into pieces, then put it back in place by her photo of Rory at Chilton graduation, and her photo of Rory on her first day of school, and all the other photos that kept her sane in the long hours of lunacy that came with running an inn.

Someone tapped on the door. "It is I," announced Michel, "and I brought Sookie."

"Oh let me in, Michel!"

A split second later, Lorelai was smothered in a hug, a cup of spicy-scented tea, and a plate of soft sugar cookies.

She burst into tears.

"Shh," said Sookie gently and held her, rocking her. "I know, honey. I know. We'll make up good hexes on him. Okay? Let's wish a bad thing on him, like warts. Or someone missing the turn and driving right through the plate glass window at the diner. Or the paint on his truck turning pink overnight. We can go throw eggs at him. Tell me what you need to do, honey, I don't know how to help!"

"My parents are getting a divorce and I can't even talk to Luke without fighting and if you and Jackson ever break up, I'll… I'll…" sobbed Lorelai. "And I'm getting your chef whites all icky!"

"Honey, this is me, I go through three sets a day, you know that."

Lorelai wailed. For this, an adult best friend was the only possible cure. Someone who could be kid-silly but was adult-scarred.

"And Jackson and I can't split up, he grows food and I cook food and then we both eat food, it'd be like a violation of the circle of life."

Lorelai succumbed to a blubber.

"Eat a cookie," commanded Sookie. "I know you worry about your health since… Well, since then. But a single cookie won't kill you, and if it does, you won't die hungry, okay?"

Cry-laughing held no dignity, but did bring solace. Shoulders hitching, Lorelai blew her nose in the kitchen towel, then wiped her face on a clean gauze pad Sookie had in her pocket because Sookie usually needed one. Shivering from the inside out, she ate a cookie and drank tea. "Good. Tea. Mulling spices?"

"Yeah, with a little bit of apple juice. You like?"

Lorelai nodded, slouching. How she wound up on the couch, she did not know, nor care. "Thanks, Sook. Yeah. Good tea. Good cookie. But y'know my dad has a heart thing so it's not just…"

"I know, but you got kinda scary Posh Spice skinny for a while."

"Rory's still skinnier."

"Rory's shorter, too."

"Point," acknowledged Lorelai, and took the cookie she was given. "I'll have to see my mom soon. Rory's negotiating this family dinner like it's the Treaty of Versailles, the one that ended World War One."

"Thank you for clarifying which Treaty of Versailles," said Sookie gravely. "And why is Rory doing this?"

"She's Rory. She goes around sprinkling magic happy dust wherever she walks," sighed Lorelai, and rinsed down the last of the cookie with the last of the tea. "Too much clove at the end on the tea, Sook."

"Got it. So she wants everyone to be adult and rational when it's going to be ten kinds of Jerry Springer."

"I like finally knowing my dad better. I do. I feel kinda weird. Like April," she laughed sourly, and pointed to the box of tissues. Sookie obligingly passed it to her. Lorelai blew her nose some more. "But my mom… We were getting better and then… I'm tired, Sook. The whole formula of life thing. Have career, find good man, have house, have kids, poof, instant happy!"

"Well, who said the whole package had to come in that order?" challenged Sookie, and rose. "You got it, you just didn't get everything at once. Or in that order. Look at me. Career, house, husband, kids, no dog, and sometimes I sit in the bathroom and cry for ten minutes because I just want a day when I only have to deal with one thing at a time, not five at once, y'know? When Davey and Jackson both have a bad day the same day, and the house is a mess, and I've been on my feet in the kitchen all day, and I come home to everyone wanting me to fix all that? At our age?" concluded Sookie. "Your mom, my mom, they did all that in their twenties, and having a job was like having a hobby."

Lorelai stood, gave Sookie a quick hug. "Thanks. You're right. I know that. In my head. But I spent a long time thinking it had to go according to some plan, it's hard to unthink that."

Sookie pulled open the office door, turned back quickly. "How bad, with Luke?"

A gruff male voice said, "Bad."

Sookie screamed and slammed the door on Luke.

"OhmyGod," she whispered. "Whatwhatwhat?"

Lorelai sagged, shook out her hair, and wiped until the tissues showed no traces of cosmetics. "First, you breathe. Second, you go to the kitchen. Third, ask if anyone in the kitchen worked as a bouncer."

"Seriously?"

"Not on the bouncers, but it's tempting."

"On it!" said Sookie, opened the door, and jabbed a finger under Luke's chin, into the tender place between bone and windpipe. "Make her cry again, that's gonna be a knife, buster."

Lorelai looked at the man who was Her One, and also, at the moment, her nemesis. "Leave the door open, please."

Sookie left, glaring. Luke kept the door open. He sat on the couch. Lorelai removed herself to her chair at her desk. When he did and said nothing after an exact three minutes by her watch, she faced facts. Letters galore, but when the day came, it reduced to yelling, tears, and silence.

She focused on her ring-free fingers, pushing hard into her desk, and prepared to speak.

When she looked up, Luke was gone. She wished that surprised her.

GG GG GG

"Well, Richard, you did very well on your stress test."

"But?" prodded Richard, tapping a finger on his leg. "I know there is always some qualifier."

"But…" said his cardiologist. "I do have concerns."

Richard growled to himself. "The bloodwork?" he asked in a nasty-civil tone that worked wonders in the business world, and had no effect at all on the cardiologist.

"No, your cholesterol and triglycerides are where we want them."

They weren't, in Richard's opinion. He wanted them higher. He missed the simple joy of a bacon cheeseburger. Still, Lorelai's changed eating habits had made an impression on him. He couldn't be outdone by his own daughter.

"Blood pressure is high, but given the situation, that's not unexpected."

"Then why are we having this discussion?" inquired Richard sweetly.

The cardiologist met Richard's gaze squarely. "Your original diagnosis was variant angina. Your mother died of heart failure."

Richard nodded, his bow tie suddenly far too tight. He could remember clearly when Trix decided Lorelai's immaturity came from Emily, how indignant he felt at that moment, though he shared her opinion that the two women had to stop their squabbling over petty words and past mistakes. As Trix had reminded him, he'd been no model of perfection, and it always stung that she might have been right to blame Lorelai's failures on him. After all, he'd left Lorelai to Emily. Was Trix going to haunt him further, in his very _heart_?

"You've done well in terms of diet, exercise, and reducing your intake of alcohol."

"And?"

"I think it's time to change your medications to include a beta blocker. It can help reduce the effects of adrenaline, from stress, upon your heart." The doctor passed him a pamphlet. "It helps lower your blood pressure, as well. Given the changes in your life, what we're seeing on echocardiogram…"

"You said my EKG was fine."

"That's your electro-cardiogram. Echo is the ultrasound of your heart," explained the doctor, as if aware that Richard interrupted solely to find some sense of control over the situation. "The cardiac catheter we did last week indicated that your coronary arteries aren't in optimal condition, no worse than five years ago, but certainly no better, and I don't like the fact you're still not exercising as much as recommended."

"In my own language, please."

"Ideally, we wanted by now to see more mitigation of coronary artery disease, and if we don't see more progress, I worry that a stressful event could put you in the hospital, Richard."

He paled. "I don't…"

"Or that we might need to resort to invasive measures. I'd prefer to avoid stents at this point…"

So would Richard, to whom the word _stent_ was terrifying.

"But if we don't see improvements, we could be looking at an open-heart procedure. I'd like you to consider stents. Your right coronary artery at this point is borderline qualifying you for a stent."

"Stent," repeated Richard faintly. He looked at the pamphlet. A stent stuck in his artery and held it open, like his artery was a collapsing tube or clogged pipe. Possibly both. He understood actuarial tables, but the pamphlet left him swimming in confusion. He wished he'd brought Lorelai. Or Rory. Or, really, anyone.

No, not anyone. Emily would panic and fret and become shrill and he did not want that.

"Stress management is required, as well as more physical activity. If a situation begins to upset you, or you can see it's going to become significant…" The cardiologist harrumphed. "Such as a court hearing or similar meeting with your estranged wife."

Richard nodded, shivering a little inside himself.

"Walk away. Leave. Do not be drawn into it. The beta blocker I'm prescribing can help, but nothing can stop the human body from a catastrophic failure if we ignore its warnings."

Richard frowned. "Wait a moment. What about my examination led you to…"

The doctor said quickly, "I mentioned your wife, and your blood pressure spiked alarmingly. It lowered, but I notice that if I mention your wife… There, again."

Richard frowned. "There, again?"

"Face flushing, then paling, pupil dilation."

Caught out, and oddly humiliated, Richard grumbled, "This is entirely too personal."

"It's my job to keep you alive. That is personal."

Richard blinked hard. He confided, in a burst, "I lived by very strict rules. I did not consider that the price of peace thirty years ago would end in such conflict, and now I am rather at a loss." He smiled thinly. "I don't suppose you have a pill that allows my daughter and wife to behave like adults around each other."

"Psychiatry is in the next building."

Richard nodded, folding up the pamphlet and shoving it into a pocket. He placed the prescription slip into his wallet. "A year?"

"Three months, since you're taking a new medication."

"Of course," came Richard's meaningless reply. He stood, shook the cardiologist's hand. "My daughter. She's not yet forty. How much should she worry?"

"Her habits…?"

"Radically changed in the last several months. Much more in line with the sort of diet you recommend, no coffee, and I think she may have given up burger and fries forever."

"Does she exercise?"

Richard grinned a little. "Not enough for you, I don't doubt."

"Well, given your history and your mother's, I think it's best she focuses on prevention. May I ask what changed her habits?"

Drawing upon his dignity, Richard answered sharply, "You may, but I will not answer."

"Understood. I'll see you in ninety days, Richard, and if you have any problems, call immediately."

Richard went out to the nurse's desk. Or receptionist. He no longer knew which it was. He paid. He paused, then took one of the informational sheets on free stress management seminars. He'd rather have brandy, but who wouldn't?

AN: Cardiology information is accurate per my personal experiences with such. I wanted Richard to be in better shape than the show let him be. I've been through this with my mother, and if you haven't guessed, I'm skipping many plot points from S7, because, well, y'know. I can. It's AU.

Entwhistle is a real surname. Yes, about six months post-Partings, they're still a mess. There are nine treaties referred to as the Treaty of Versailles, but if you don't use the date, it's assumed to be the one that ended World War 1 between France and Germany. The other eight years are 1756, 1757, 1758 (hey, France was busy), 1768, 1774, 1783, 1787, and 1871 (ending the Franco-Prussian war, which was basically, yes, France and Germany).


	12. Chapter 12

Disclaimer: So, still not mine.

CHAPTER TWELVE

"This was my worst idea ever," said Rory Gilmore on the phone.

Emily hesitated, aware that she agreed with Rory, but also wanting to know what else Rory might reveal.

"I know, Logan, but it's easy in theory. Then you get them in a room together."

Emily pursed her mouth. Gathering early in December, to allow Rory a family dinner before her London holiday, sounded simple and pleasant. Thus far, Emily had only found it simple. _Pleasant_ was merely a word in a dictionary.

"Gotta go, someone's waiting."

As the door opened, Emily stepped back two quick paces, raised her eyebrows, pursed her mouth. "You're allowed to have conversations on the phone, Rory, but one typically doesn't use the bathroom. Privacy is available outside, for example."

Rory's face reddened. "I didn't think I should leave the combat zone."

"Why, Rory! We've all behaved very well, I believe."

Before Rory could reply, Lorelai appeared. "Hey, kiddo. Hey, Mom. Is the bathroom free?"

"Why?" asked Emily sweetly. "Do you need to make a telephone call?"

She'd baffled her daughter, who muttered, "Okay, weird," and disappeared into the bathroom.

"C'mon, Grandma, we should get back to Grandpa."

"Why?" queried Emily brightly and patted Rory's hand as it came to rest on her arm. "Do you think he'll steal the silver?"

"Oh my God," moaned Rory under her breath. "I should've listened to Paris."

"I'm certain she had an opinion, yes," agreed Emily, and stopped by the drinks cart. The mansion had changed a great deal since Richard moved out. The drapes and upholstery were now silk, in softer colors, and the artwork was less ornate, less burdened by the weight of history and expectations and inheritances. Much of that, Emily had sent to a storage facility at Richard's expense, as it came from his family. The drinks cart, however, she kept. She doubted that Richard knew it technically qualified as _his_.

"Refills?" she trilled.

"Please," said Richard grimly.

Her reflex to scold him for drinking arose, and she fought it down. "Of course. Rory?"

"Definitely."

"I can safely assume Lorelai will want more alcohol."

"Grandma, I know dinner's ready, I booked the caterer, can't we go into the dining room and start?" begged Rory as a fresh glass of wine came her way. "All I wanted was a dinner, with my family, sort of combine Thanksgiving and Christmas, and maybe remember that we all love each other!"

Emily shot back, "Speak for yourself, Rory, I find very little to love in your mother."

A tiny pained gasp hit Emily's ears exactly as her drink reached her lips. She meant it as a pause, not a full stop, but it was too late to rewind Time. As well, realized Emily, as her sentence was meant to end in a gratuitously spiteful, "…or in your grandfather, these days."

"Wow. Good to know," said Lorelai, face pale and voice wobbly. "Y'know, I always knew you didn't love me, but I gotta give you credit, you finally admitted it." She walked to the couch, kissed Rory's forehead. "Talk to you later, kid. Okay?"

"Mom…"

"I shouldn't be where I'm not welcome," said Lorelai, and Emily's heart twisted. Why did she do this? Why did she never _stop_? "Have a good time with your grandparents."

"Mom, no, you can't go, you…"

Rory was left staring at a space where her mother had been. Emily noted that the girl looked stricken, but did not follow Lorelai. Neither did Richard.

"Now," said Emily briskly, "I do believe our meal is ready."

Rory's big hopeful eyes locked Richard into place. Emily smiled slightly. With Lorelai gone, she might be able to remind these two Gilmores of her importance in their lives. And, perhaps, theirs in hers.

They filed into the dining room, subdued, and Richard politely pulled out the chairs for Rory and for Emily. Pleased, Emily gave him a beaming smile, as a woman in all black with a white apron came forward to deposit warmed plates before each of them.

"It smells delicious, and you chose an excellent menu, Rory," she complimented. She meant it. While roasted chicken was a rather dull fowl, the choice of asiago polenta gave it interest, as did the mushrooms tossed in truffle oil. The grated kohlrabi, drizzled in olive oil, pepper and salt, added a lovely complement in texture.

"Sookie helped," said Rory shortly. "I'll tell her you like it."

"Sookie is an excellent chef," agreed Richard a bit too heartily. "Dessert?"

"Pineapple sorbet drizzled in mango vinegar."

"Interesting," said Emily in hopes of being included. "Sookie's idea?"

Rory said steadily, "No, the caterer."

Richard smiled as if pained. "Well done to them, I look forward to it."

Emily put her foot down, so to speak. "No soup, no salad… An unusual approach."

"It's a family dinner," gritted Rory, poking a mushroom as if it offended her. "I didn't think we needed five courses." After she ate the mushroom, she added, "Of course, I didn't think we'd survive five courses around each other, either, and wow, we didn't even get past drinks."

"Rory," chided Richard softly. "Let us enjoy as we can."

"Sure. Mom eats alone in the jeep, we live it up in the palace."

"Rory!" scolded Emily in shock, setting down fork and knife. "Your mother left of her own accord."

Rory sawed at the chicken, which didn't require such aggressive tactics, and then slammed down her flatware. "What is your problem? Oh, wait, I know, Mom wasn't a perfect angel, well, neither am I!"

"Oh dear," sighed Richard. Emily reddened when she saw he was focusing on his food as if he feared the plate would be taken.

"Rory, lower your voice at table, please."

Rory stood. Richard set down his fork. Emily stiffened.

"What is _wrong_ with you?" shouted Rory, startling both grandparents, and the caterer hovering with the wine bottle. "You just told your only kid you don't love her, and you're worried about my table manners!"

"You're far too young to understand."

"I'm gonna graduate Yale," snarled Rory, leaning forward slightly. "Try me."

"Your mother was born with a… Well, some sort of disorder that they have no name for."

"A personality?"

"Enough!" said Richard curtly, and rose majestically to his feet. "Rory, whatever our parenting mistakes, we tried to rectify them with you, and while that seems quite unfair to your mother, bear in mind that your mother is a very stubborn woman."

"Wonder where she got that from," Rory muttered, and folded her arms.

"Emily," said Richard, and she looked hopefully at him. He hadn't defended Lorelai. That had to mean something.

"Emily," he repeated, "I have placed the family name and reputation over my child. I have let anger and disappointment rule too many actions when Lorelai is involved. Never, even in the worst moments, have I ever even _thought_ there was little in her to love. I do not always understand or approve of my daughter, but I do love her, Emily, and I think a nice hot chocolate would be a much finer dessert than sorbet. Rory, if you would join me, please?"

Richard as peacemaker was not new. Richard as peacemaker and leaving Emily to stand alone?

"Richard," she said brokenly. "Rory!"

"I am too old to center my life around _what ifs_ ," Richard told her sadly. "It is time to live _what is_."

They continued away from her. Why did everything go wrong? If only Lorelai hadn't reacted that way! If only…

Emily's mouth crumpled. She clutched a napkin to her face, and bit out, "Get out, you pesky overpaid voyeur!"

The caterer took the bottle of wine with her. Emily wanted to scream.

GG GG GG

The bells chimed. They made _that_ noise.

Luke spun, heart pounding.

Skin too pale, eyes horribly dead, Lorelai stood in the middle of the diner. She was wearing a blue dress he thought he recognized, and her winter coat, and looked so awful that he yelled, "Everyone out!"

The three people finishing their desserts went, Kirk taking his plate along.

Luke turned the sign to "Closed", asked harshly, "Is it Rory? What's wrong? Sit down. What happened? Was there an accident? Is it your dad's heart? Lorelai? Say something!"

"Chocolate," she whimpered. "You're all that's open and it's all wrong and I don't know where to be."

His heart somehow broke _again_.

He guided her to a table, gently unbuttoned her coat, and hung it on the chair he pulled out for her. "Chocolate," he promised.

He rushed into the kitchen, where Cesar was cleaning the grill. His brain pounded. Chocolate. He had to get her chocolate. He had no cookies or pie or donuts. What did he have?

He grabbed milk, baking chocolate, a sugar shaker, and vanilla. He didn't make many desserts from scratch, but beverages he often did. And it being winter, he knew very well what people wanted.

He whisked sugar, vanilla, milk, and fine-chopped semisweet chocolate in a saucepan, muttering at it, "C'mon, c'mon!"

"Boss, it won't get hot any faster."

"Cesar…"

"Right, shutting up, going home."

"Thanks."

Cesar grinned and gave him a thumbs-up.

Luke poured the hot chocolate into the mug, threw a dollop of no-fat whipped-cream-like topping on it, and carried it to her table.

Tears were standing in her eyes.

He left her to the hot chocolate. He knew this was the week, more or less, she'd attend the family dinner Rory planned. Lane and Jackson both mentioned it where he could hear, not that he made a point of _listening_. Simply, nobody in Stars Hollow edited their conversation around him anymore. Lorelai was no longer a topic they avoided. It hurt, strangely, to think that they assumed he'd moved on and along and past the issue of Lorelai. Or, worse, that they thought he didn't _care_.

April clattered downstairs, into the diner, eyes alight. "I smell hot chocolate! Can I have a hot vanilla? I want to see if the flavor compounds are as intense as… _Oh_."

He gave April a one-armed hug. "I'll bring it upstairs."

"It's okay," said Lorelai dully, "I'll go. I shouldn't be here."

That was a look, a routine, that began at his own insistence. Guilt and grief gnawed at him.

April blurted, "Don't. Please?"

"She's right," said Luke, amazed he found the ability to speak. "You come here with that face when your mother did something."

"Her mom?" asked April, in that straightforward, naïve way.

"My mother doesn't love me. Or like me." Lorelai's smile looked like a crack in glass. She shrugged into her coat. "I kinda knew that, but tonight she said it. _There's very little to love in Lorelai_. And I…"

April broke free of Luke and ran around the counter. She threw her arms around Lorelai, pinning Lorelai in place. "I'm sorry! I'm so sorry! I mean, I know you don't blame me for all this other stuff, but I'm sorry! You should be able to have hot chocolate wherever you want, and your mom shouldn't be mean to you, and I'm so sorry she is!"

Luke's pride lit him from bone marrow outward. That kid was at least genetically his, and she was _awesome_.

Lorelai hugged April back, rather awkwardly. "Thank you, April. You're a great kid. Your parents are lucky to have you."

"Yeah, well," said April, abruptly abashed, and pulled away. She shoved at her eyeglasses unnecessarily. "I got lucky, too. Mom and I argue sometimes, but she'd _never_ say something like that. Not even the time I was trying to run a double-blind on mold growth rates in the cupboard under the bathroom sink."

Luke choked. Maybe he was glad to have missed a few of those precious parenting moments.

"Well, I'm not such a great kid," said Lorelai, with a brittle tension that Luke knew far too well to be dangerous.

"Dad, make me a hot vanilla?"

Once, Lorelai would have sniggered a quiet, "Dirty!" Now she tried to detach April's hands from her sleeve.

April tugged her back to the table. "Sit. Drink. Health class said you need warmth and fluids if you're in shock, and you look kinda shocky."

"No idea where you get it, kid," he said without thinking. "Nobody ever claimed me or your mom are the warm and fuzzy types."

"You can be, Dad," said April carelessly, the single syllable thrilling him all over whenever he heard it. "When you think no one is watching."

Embarrassed, Luke retreated. Having no idea how to make a "hot vanilla", he added thrice the vanilla, none of the chocolate, to heating milk and sugar. When he emerged, April was chatting amiably at Lorelai about the chemistry of food. That, she explained, was this year's science project. Having found her father, and his owning a diner, inspired her to look at the thermodynamics and chemistry of cooking. She made it sound interesting.

He gave his daughter her hot drink. He watched from afar, as he cleaned the counter and coffee makers. Finally, Lorelai said she'd finished her drink, and should go. She walked to the register.

Luke said gruffly, "First time is on the house." He added, in daring hope, "Mimi."

She handed him three dollars. "Lorelai," she corrected stiffly, and lowered her voice. "Why did you leave the inn? That day?"

"I didn't have anything new to say." He passed over her change.

"Okay." She tucked the money into her coat pocket. "Good night, April!" she called, and went out into the cold.

"Go!" urged his daughter. "Go talk to her, do the romantic declaration!"

Luke turned his back, muttering, "Those aren't my thing."

"How's that working?" retorted his daughter. "Oh, and hot vanilla milk _sucks_."

She went back up to the apartment.

Luke sat down, head in hands. He reached over and sipped from the mug April left behind. She was right. It was terrible.

He pulled out his order pad. He wrote on the back of a page, _I forgive you. I forgave you. For the hokey-pokey dance and yelling and being right and anything else. Real forgiveness. Can you forgive me? Did you? How can you?_

He tore that off, and began a new slip, printing carefully to save space. _If April wasn't here and a teenager, I'd chase you home and make you see your mother is wrong._

He hollered, as if he could see his daughter, "Stop texting and finish your homework!"

"Oh my God, Da- _aaad_! Ugh! It was just to Jeremy!"

"I'll get a signal jammer," he shouted up to her.

"You know I'd get around it!"

"April!"

"Okay, geez, don't be so Taylor."

"Nice try, young lady, now finish the book report!"

He heard a quieter, more disgusted, "Ugh!"

He finished the note to Lorelai with a rueful, _But she's texting some boy. April, I mean. Not your mother. If you need me, call._

Satisfied, he folded the two bits of paper into his wallet, and got back to shutting down the diner for the night.

AN: Hot vanilla milk is a thing in my family. My grandma made it.


	13. Chapter 13

Disclaimer: Oy with the disclaimers already.

AN: I tried to write the traditional winter holidays and it was so awful I deleted it. Thus the time jump ahead to January 2007. Sorry. I really couldn't make the holiday season work out. Assume Rory was in London, Lorelai hung out with Sookie, Luke spent time with April, and Richard and Emily were quietly melancholy and alone. There, see? Saved you 4,000 words of pointless maundering.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Ignoring her half-eaten vegetable fried rice, Lorelai re-read the summary, looked up, and said to Paris, "Thank you. I mean it. This is in almost-English."

"My pleasure, and from what I've gathered from my sources, your father is in excellent hands, and this medication regimen is an intelligent preventive measure," said the younger woman in her crisp, decided way. "I think you should take note of the appendix, second page."

Sharing an amused glance with Rory, Lorelai did so. "Okay. Five most stressful events in life… moving, divorce... Oh my God, Dad…"

"Precisely. The less upsetting this process can be, the better for everyone's health, mental and physical, given the somatic effects we suffer from emotional stimuli. The human limbic system really isn't very well-designed for modern life, but I'm certain it served our ancestors well." Paris poked at her own food container, frowning. "I am almost positive this is not recyclable. Someone needs to talk to Panda Distress about that."

"Remind me again why she doesn't run the world?" quipped Lorelai to Rory.

"Too busy," said Rory sagely. "So Grandpa's had to do moving and divorce. What else… Oh my God, _death_!"

As Paris looked on in consternation, Lorelai suddenly and inappropriately burst into giggles. She laughed until her breath hitched, then her ribs hurt, and finally her eyes ran. She squealed, squeaked, and finally squawked, "How… Stressful… Is it… To be… _Dead_?"

"Wow," said Paris clinically. "Rory, should we do something?"

"Nope."

"This is typical?"

"This is stage three Lorelai-ing. Stage one, you freeze up. Stage two, you babble. Stage three, you get the giggles."

"What are the other stages?"

"Well, at stage four, you do something massively embarrassing. Mom? What qualifies as stage five?"

"You cancel your wedding or steal a motor vehicle," said Lorelai, recovering enough composure to breathe. "Okay. I'm better."

Paris's raised, disbelieving eyebrows nearly set her off again. Lorelai sipped very bitter tea, from a restaurant that only Paris would call _Panda Distress_ , glad that the onlookers in the mall food court decided she wasn't the afternoon cabaret.

"You have a point," said Paris finally. "The dead aren't capable of stress. It's poor phrasing. C'mon, Gilmore, you're my ride, and I have intercourse scheduled with Doyle. Lorelai, always a pleasure."

Paris marched off. Rory and her mother shared a laughing glance, a shake of the head, and a hug. "Call," they said simultaneously.

Table covered in half-eaten things Paris called _alleged food_ , Lorelai decided to enjoy people-watching. Couples. Singles. Kids. The food court was remarkably free of red and pink hearts, had no lobster, no hopes attached. It was a great way to unwind with the Vineyard anniversary a month away. People absorbed in themselves, unaware of pain or pretending bliss, affirming that there was life despite her lack of a partner to talk to the cable guy or run errands or whatever else came to mind.

The sad truth, as Lorelai had learned, was that few couples had equal share in those chores and errands. Someone always took more care of something. Kids, houses, earnings, dishes, cooking... There were always reasons for there to be unequal distribution. The man who made more money than the woman, for example, felt he had no need to take out the trash. That, for Lorelai, was probably the story of the guy walking next to a woman, with the woman toting four bags and the man carrying none. Then there was the woman with the two kids, juggling two large bags while the kids sucked on soft drinks and played on their phones. Her story was probably like Lorelai's, a single parent, harried, buying two of everything on sale, so tired that the smell of coffee lured her but after a glance at the prices, she walked away. That woman probably had to do everything herself, and so not everything got done.

A man and woman emerged from a department store, each pushing a stroller. The child being pushed by the man was larger, and snoozing. The child in the other stroller was probably a year old, and was making quiet babble noises. The man and woman (Lorelai hoped they were the parents) coordinated their steps in order to share a kiss. A perfect weekend afternoon, kids and all, but the earrings on the woman screamed _apology diamonds_ to Lorelai. She'd seen such on women in Hartford all her childhood. Certain jewelry was for anniversaries, and some for apologies, and some…

Some was unsuitable, given to keep a woman's mouth shut and stave off whining and arguing over senseless marketing gimmick holidays. Because, after all, the woman would obviously throw a tantrum if she didn't get jewelry, rather than an _immediate_ truthful, "I'm so messed up with this April thing, I forgot to buy something."

Truth was a much better gift than gold or diamonds.

Lorelai shoved Paris's summary into her bag, and cleared the table quickly, efficiently. She took out a pen and notebook. It was important, right now, for her to write down what she could, when she had no one to talk to, and no chance of interruptions.

Maybe all the naysayers could have said, "Gee, you're a single mom working insane hours and also trying to get a college degree and buy and run an inn, how about we stop complaining that your laundry isn't done on schedule. We could even shut up about your erratic dating life, what with you having time to see a guy for a cup of coffee before you need to run like hell to catch up to your to-do list before it gets further away from you."

Lorelai smiled, felt her face twist into a grimace. Her house was cluttered but clean, and the chores _were_ done, and if she tried to cook from scratch, she'd have no time to eat. That was reality. She'd love a life so leisurely that her house looked amazing and her home-canned preserves won prizes at some fair. Of course, if she didn't have a job, or didn't try to pay her bills on time, or have a life outside her job and Rory… A snap of the fingers.

That, she knew, was something she and Luke needed to discuss. He really had no idea that she'd had it harder in some ways, and a moneyed childhood did _not_ pay her adult bills. That was, she acknowledged, part of Rory's rejection of Lorelai's life. Rory wanted it to come easier, and more power to her, _but_ …

She stopped writing in the teal-and-silver notebook. She steadied herself.

 _But, Luke,_ she printed carefully, _it felt like she was criticizing me the same way Mom did. I didn't make it perfect enough, so it wasn't_ good _enough. It sucks. Believe me, the whole tell-the-truth-thing ties into this. I told Rory the truth, but I didn't like admitting it. Nobody thinks their parents did it all okay. Everyone has something to point to that wasn't just-exactly-perfectly-as-desired. Some more than others. Maybe I should have left Rory to Emily, but without Rory to work for, I'd give up. I wasn't enough to do it for, and I'd probably have done nothing with my life at all but whatever I was told to do, as long as enough alcohol was involved. I can't stop feeling sorry for Chris about that. Seeing him as a lost kid and being there for him was like helping, in my head, and I didn't like seeing Rory the same way. I lost track of my thought, but the essence is, I'm writing this notebook in response to your notes, so maybe someday we can talk in person, stop being pen pals. Not right now, I know you've barely gotten through the first custody hearing with April's mom. I want to give you time to process and_

Something tugged at her attention, a familiar way of moving and a hint of a chuckle.

She turned, and saw Luke. He was with a very fit blonde, both dressed as if they'd come to the mall after a nice exhilarating hike in the snow. It couldn't be true, she thought, that he'd be at a mall in Hartford, on a _date_ , but when the blonde leaned over and kissed his lips, and he blushed and muttered, she knew it was true.

She flushed icy and hot simultaneously.

Hadn't he just written a note last week, saying _Giving up on us was the worst mistake and I hope I can fix it_?

They walked into a store that sold, of course, winter gear. When they emerged, Lorelai saw that Luke wore a warm knit cap, not the blue ball cap she'd bought him ages ago. His arm was around the blonde's waist, and hers around his. The body language didn't lie. Neither did the laughter, and the look they exchanged.

Lorelai turned her back. Her eyes and throat ached. She should have known. Actions. Words. Why did she think being allowed in the diner around April, once, meant anything? Why had she poured herself into this notebook, because of an hour and a cup of hot chocolate? Was she so desperate for love that she'd see hope in Luke giving her what he'd give _Kirk_ in distress?

She wrote in the notebook, with deep-cutting strokes, _But I see you're dating again so I guess you're done processing. You know how to be a dad and have a girlfriend. You stand up to April's mother in court. You told me it was easier to walk away and you wanted to try, like we only argued over wallpaper, when it was much more. For me, at least, it was a lot more._

She paused, drew several calming breaths, and finished with a slash of her pen. It was like blood, not ink, on the page.

 _I'm sending this notebook to you, not to make you feel bad or to cause trouble, but to show that I've learned a lot from my mistakes. That I can give you my truths. I started this notebook with apologies. I'll end it on gratitude. Thank you, and I hope the best for you.  
_

She meant it. That was what hurt most, for Lorelai. She _meant_ it. She'd learned much since the fragmentation of her life from the grenade of _Who's the lucky guy?_ She had learned that, as much as she wanted to lash out with _Who's the lucky girl?_ , that she had no claim on Luke, and possibly she never had. Actions spoke for him. She should have paid attention to those. That was on her.

She closed the notebook. She stopped at the post office on her way home. She mailed it. Properly.

There was one small comfort. She didn't miss coffee anymore.

GG GG GG

Richard sighed, and wiggled his toes.

Lorelai had worried he would not like the home foot spa machine for Christmas. He loved it. He beamed with pleasure at it, bubbling happily around his aching arches. She had babbled anxiously about his having everything and what could she add to that, but a foot spa turned out to be _perfect_.

The hell of taking a doctor's advice was that things hurt. For example, the treadmill was one thing, and walking miles about Hartford another. This peculiar exercise device meant to mimic cross-country skiing did wonders for his heart rate, but played havoc with his ankles for some reason. Why sore ankles led to pain in his back, Richard did not ask. He only knew that he hurt, and the foot spa took that away.

He sighed again, happily, and let little vibrating things rub the bottoms of his feet while warm water jetted against everything from the ankles down, all of it scented of citrus and mint. That had been Rory's contribution, a variety of cleansing, soothing, rejuvenating powders to add to the water. He had no idea if his _qi_ was adjusted by the vibrations or if the little bubbles had actual therapeutic value, but he didn't care. His feet were being rubbed, massaged, warmed, soaked, tickled, all at once. It was delightful.

Someone knocked at the study door. "Mr. Gilmore? Your supper is ready."

That sigh was not a happy one. "Yes, Miss Cartman, thank you."

He switched off the machine and rubbed his feet dry. He put on socks and loafers. He rolled down his trouser legs. He walked into the small dining room.

The night's entrée was a rather interesting change, a lentil stew with crisp bits of toasted bread, and a rather odd-looking dessert. "May I ask what this is?"

"Oh. It's, well, sir…"

He smiled at her. She was a fine-looking middle-aged woman, who typically appeared only on Monday mornings to confirm the rest of the week's menu with him.

"We had a freezer malfunction," admitted Miss Cartman, color rising up her throat to her cheeks. "The sorbet is every berry I had in the freezer. In layers."

"Ah." Richard studied the cup. He could guess strawberries, blueberries, and blackberries, but the other color mystified him. "Green?"

"Gooseberry."

Once, Richard did not like Mondays. That time had gone. He lit up inside. "Gooseberry? As a boy, I loved gooseberry jam on toast." He rubbed his hands together. "Well now. I believe I signed off on the menu this morning, Miss Cartman, so that should be all."

"Sir?"

Mildly irked, Richard bit out, "Yes?"

"May I ask about the foot spa you were using? I don't want to intrude, but, well, I'm on my feet most of my day and…"

"Of course. I shall text you the make and model later."

She smiled, and he blinked. A woman's smile had not done that to him in some time. "Thank you, Mr. Gilmore. Enjoy your meal. Good night."

He thought, for a moment, of asking her to stay, but he knew the look of her. It was that of a woman who had built a business, who ran her business, who had business problems to deal with, and she would not rest until the issues were resolved. He respected that in her, as he did in his daughter, and in anyone who had a hands-on approach. She was not yelling at someone else to fix it. She was going to be on the phone herself, he could tell, all night if needed. She was already on it, dickering with an appliance rental firm, before she was out the back door. Though her voice was low, he lived in quiet, and heard the crisp, "Look, Victor, I know that you know I need a freezer, but if you…"

Richard dutifully ate his stew and little crisp rounds of whole-grain seed-enriched toast. He attacked the sorbet with glee. He wondered what Lorelai's inn could make of such a thing, with locally grown berries, and texted her. Then he tidied away his foot spa, settled in with his cup of evening green tea, and took his medication as scheduled.

The house was soft with its own noises, of heated air in ducts, and the tick of the mantel clock, the tiny rattle of windows in the gusting wind. The air smelled of his supper, and foot soak, and slightly of soap from the house cleaners, dominated by paper and ink when he opened his book.

The peace slipped into his bones.

It was strange, thought Richard, that he did not miss Emily as much as he had expected.

He was well into _Far from the Madding Crowd_ when he recalled his promise to text Miss Cartman. Then he smiled, struck by an idea, and left his daughter a voice-mail instead. "Lorelai, my dear, could you find another of those marvelous foot spas? I will pay, it's a gift for someone I know who could use it."

Within moments, she'd returned the call. "Dad? Gift? I mean, sure, yes, I can pick up another one, and drop it by your house tomorrow if you want, but I didn't think I was missing anyone's birthday."

"Oh, it's not a birthday, it's for Miss Cartman. She asked about it, you see."

Many questions were loaded into Lorelai's simple, "Dad?"

Richard emitted a loud chuckle when he realized the implications of those unspoken inquiries. "Nothing like that, good heavens, it's simply a kindness to someone, and I realized this evening I don't have to worry about justifying the expense to anyone."

There was a busy, thinking silence before Lorelai said, "Like the time you were caught tipping the maid who starched your shirts the way you like."

"Precisely," said Richard, relieved that she did not directly refer to her mother, or any other unpleasant topic. "No rush, I won't see her until she drops by with next week's menu. Thank you, Lorelai."

"No problem, Dad. Thanks for… Uh, well, y'know. Thinking I can do something."

He boomed a laugh. "Good night, Lorelai."

"Good night, Dad. Oh wait, did you…"

"Yes, I took my medication."

Shaking his head as he set aside the phone, Richard smiled. It was nice, this life, in ways he never anticipated.

GG GG GG

AN: Yes, the characters are inconsistent, uneven, in their feelings about situations, selves, and others. Why? Becuse that is, sadly, consistent with human nature. E.G., dinners like the one in chapter 12 do not end with a mass exodus because the habit is to try to stick it out, per the show.

Blame for Luke, btw. I asked what aguy would do. My husband replied, "Something stupid that hurts everyone, because it'll look easier than embracing the suck." And there you have it...


	14. Chapter 14

Disclaimer: Like we don't all know it's not mine…

AN: I'm aware that many are absolutely furious about how I've written Lorelai and/or Luke. Now on to Emily, The Witch-Queen of Hartford, and some much self-bashing by our man Luke...

BELATED AN: YES SUSAN BENNETT IS THE SWIM COACH. I noted this in the chapter-ending AN. It can be inferred from the fic itself, I thought, but apparently not. I'm not rewriting this thing at this point. I'm bloody sick of it.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

With a newly manicured nail, Emily Gilmore flicked lint from her navy blue skirt, and smoothed her hair unnecessarily. "Lorelai, how good of you to meet with me."

Her daughter sat stiff, hands tight around the strap of her purse. "Mom."

"I understand the fish here is quite good," said Emily brightly. "Perhaps with early asparagus."

"Sure."

Emily bit back a sharp word or ten. The restaurant was one of Hartford's finest, but her daughter looked as if she'd been dragged to witness an execution. "As I recall, you adore anything heavy and creamy, you should like the Hollandaise."

"Actually, Mom, I'm good with herbs and lemon."

"Oh?" trilled Emily, pleased to see that her daughter was showing the first signs of impending emotional display. The lines at the corners of her mouth, her eyes, had deepened. "Well, what a pleasant change."

"Mom. You and me, we don't do the chit-chat. I doubt I'll be here when the entrée shows up, so can we just get on with this whatever it is?"

Emily made a show of examining Lorelai's left hand when it reached for the goblet of ice water. "I see your status is unchanged."

Lorelai set down the goblet, daintily, and her lips whitened. "Mom, you can insult me without paying for supper."

"Well, this is business, not personal."

"Oh good," sighed her daughter, and studied the linen tablecloth.

"There are some things, regarding the property, that you need to attend, before I can continue divorce proceedings."

Lorelai's eyes flashed cobalt flame at Emily, startling her. "Oh, a dollhouse I could never play with? Dad told me. Sell it to someone who likes to look at toys instead of use them. Was there anything else? You threw out my old clothes, which was fine, because I took the ones I liked…"

"Ragged t-shirts and awful jeans!"

"Which fit me when I had baby weight and baby boobs," snapped Lorelai in a low enough voice that not even Emily could censure her. "And didn't need to be dry cleaned. And what is this about, Mom? What else of mine is in that house?"

Having expected hostility, Emily was still taken aback by Lorelai's aggression. "My, you're in a foul mood. Another affair gone wrong?"

"Contrary to what you think, _Mother_ ," said Lorelai in a bitter, but appropriately quiet voice, "I don't sleep with every man who winks at me!"

"Do not attack me, Lorelai, I am being kind by allowing you the chance to claim your…"

"I came because Dad and Rory asked me to, not because you did," her daughter snarled rudely, "so give me the list of what you think I might want."

Emily reached into her purse, and handed over the cream-colored paper, of the finest quality.

Lorelai drew out a pen, of neon green, and scanned the list. The waiter brought salads, took one look, and left without a word. Emily began on her mixed greens, drizzled with a vinaigrette, and began to wish that she had ordered filet mignon. There was little joy in food-shaming someone who was eating what she did. The last thing she anticipated was that Lorelai would choose the identical salad, let alone _eat_ it. She did so tidily, as well, leaving Emily no opening for an obvious criticism.

Emily found one nonetheless.

"Must you do that while you eat? It's terribly rude."

Lorelai's pen ticked along the paper, without a pause. "I'm not eating yet, Mother. You do not seriously still have my vinyl of Syd and Nancy," replied Lorelai, raising her head to study Emily in a way that reminded Emily eerily of Trix. "You threw it in the trash over twenty years ago."

"It was unsuitable."

"Well, doesn't matter," said Lorelai with a shrug. Emily wished her child hadn't worn her work clothes. It made Lorelai seem so distant, so cold, so formal. It certainly met the dress code, and her standards, but there was no character to it.

Emily blinked. She set down her fork. That was Lorelai's _game_. She was going to out-Emily Emily. "That's why you're wearing such tasteful jewelry!"

Lorelai's eyebrows went up slightly, and then down into a scowl. She wore small gold hoops, a thin gold chain with a tiny hoop-shaped pendant, and what Emily now guessed to be a third-hand discount Donna Karan suit, but it passed muster. At first glance, that was. Emily _never_ stopped at first glance.

Smirking, Emily took the list Lorelai returned to her, and her face froze. Lorelai had declined every item on the list, including the dollhouse, the dolls, a few music recordings, and Rory's bronzed baby shoes.

She caught her breath. "But they're Rory's."

"No, they're mine," said Lorelai calmly. "I took Rory's ages ago. Christmas of… I think 1992? You bought Rory dolls to look at, Dad gave her books, and you were busy telling me how awful her dress was." A distant expression crossed her daughter's face. "I ran away, remember?"

"Of course, you always…"

"I went upstairs, and sat in my room, and wondered if I wanted anything out of it, besides, y'know, _out of it_ ," mused Lorelai in a tone that reminded Emily of Richard in a lecturing mood. "I was going to take my bronzed baby shoes. They were in the closet. When I saw them, I thought, hey! I can take _Rory's_ , and put mine on the shelf in the nursery. Switcheroo. So, yes, you can keep those, I have Rory's."

Stunned, Emily slumped a little, but only a little. "What else?"

"That's all."

Part of Emily's heart cracked, seeped a terrible old pain. "You hated us so much you wouldn't even take something from our house."

"And if I did, you'd be upset," sighed Lorelai, and focused on her salad. Between bites, she commented, to Emily's dismay, "I'm tired, Mom, this whole back-and-forth yo-yo routine we have." She wiped her lips as delicately as any society matron could wish. "I don't _care_ , Mom. No, that's not true. I care."

Emily smiled.

"But I can't _hope_ anymore."

Emily frowned. She fell back on a tried-and-true defense. "What on earth are you babbling about?"

"And we've returned to our regular programming," her daughter said wearily. "Thank you for the thought and the salad, Mom."

"Wait."

Lorelai hesitated, her body language clearly shouting that she wanted to go, but her eyes indicating that she wished to stay. In the eyes, Emily saw a little girl who hated her white lace-trimmed socks and dress, and did not understand her mother's anger at the pink polka dots applied to the socks with magic marker. She saw, in that moment, the little girl who'd hoped her mother would laugh and think her clever, and buy her polka-dotted socks.

Emily held her breath. Her next words decided much. The question was, what decision did she want to make? If she softened, asked for company during her own meal, then courtesy would pull Lorelai into the chair again. If she scolded, then Lorelai would walk away, shoulders down, near tears. The third option, to ask for company and admit to loneliness, was immediately rejected. Vulnerability was not allowed. Word of it would get to Richard, and she would not give anyone the satisfaction.

She tried for a compromise, her words conciliatory and her tone brutal. "What about your entrée!"

The little girl in Lorelai's eyes slid into hiding. "Let me know what I owe you for it, I'll write a check. Good-night, Mom."

Face stinging as if she'd been slapped, Emily watched her daughter walk away. She knew Lorelai hadn't intended malice in that crisp _write a check_. She even believed it. She simply hadn't realized how arctic those words could sound.

She refused to eat alone. She stood, and the waiter rushed to her table. She passed him a hundred dollars, and said regally, "You may keep the change."

"Thank you, Mrs. Gilmore!"

Emily walked into the evening chill, her heels a solid comforting click-clack on the pavement. At least she could make _someone_ happy. A pity, she thought, that it wasn't herself.

GG GG GG

Luke hated Valentine's Day. He hadn't liked the artificiality of it when he was young, and he despised its commercial banality as an adult.

Faced with the fact that he had to take Susan on some sort of date for Valentine's Day, Luke wanted to throw up for reasons utterly unrelated to crass profiteering by the greeting-card industry. Or, in fact, the sickly sweet array of aforesaid greeting cards in pink, red, silver, gold. He _should_ be ranting about how girlfriends were easily brainwashed into thinking this day meant something more than another, but he could only twist his ball cap in his hands and try to breathe without punching something.

A year ago, on Martha's Vineyard, he'd as good as told Lorelai to go to hell, don't look back, and good riddance. That awful necklace. The rant about lobster. And now, this year, he was dating Susan Bennett, for no better reason than…

 _The same reason you didn't let go of Rachel, and you dated Nicole, and why do we keep going through this, you idiot!_

His inner Other-Luke was mouthy. Loud. Insistent. Harsh. Mostly, Luke knew, because he'd slammed the door on it. The last notes to Lorelai, the way she'd looked at the diner when she'd had that hot chocolate, somehow became tangled into the whole April thing. She's come around, been near April, so he had to show he was invested in April's life. Learning to swim seemed smart. A good bonding activity. Dating her coach, on the other hand…

 _There is no other hand, jackass. She flirted, you got flattered, you wanted to prove you're okay without Lorelai! To hell with Lorelai, right? She didn't crawl to you every day after the hot chocolate! What is wrong with you? Do you ever notice how often you do things to show that Lorelai isn't important to you? And then you wonder why she thinks we don't care!_

Luke growled at his annoying inner voice. _There's no we. We're one person!_

 _Yeah, and we keep ending up in wonderfully bland, undemanding, all-your-comfort-zone…_

Luke grabbed a large red card with a white flower on it. The verse was disgustingly poetic.

 _Nice job. Tell her you have nothing new to say, write her a note to call you, then start dating Susan. Before you stop writing notes to Lorelai. Head so far up your backside you can lick your appendix._

Luke seethed at the inner Other-Luke that sounded like Jess and Liz combined these days.

He grabbed a pink card with a puppy on it. He recoiled. "Wuf you!" was not a message he wanted to send. To anyone, ever.

He saw a small white card, greenery framing a rose that had a heart in its center. It seemed benign.

The verse inside read, "The thorn is part of the beauty of the rose."

He slapped that one back into the wall of cards he faced.

 _Roses shouldn't have thorns!_

 _Oh?_ Other-Luke sniped from inside him. _Why not? Admit it. That notebook killed you. Us. Me. Crap._

Susan was easy to be around, and discreet about their sexual encounters, so much so that April and Anna Nardini had no idea any occurred. Given the ongoing custody arrangements, that took special talent, as Anna sought anything she could to discredit him. Of course, he was dating someone his daughter already knew and liked and trusted. Or was that _Anna_ knew and liked and trusted?

Luke found a cartoon card. A beagle simply wishing a happy Valentine's Day, no sentiment attached. He raced through the checkout lane at the store. Haunted by the notebook, and his own notes, and how incredibly stupid he'd been.

 _Geez. I never learn!_

Truth tasted somewhat more bitter than this glib inner assessment. He learned. He chose to fail the exam.

 _Making yourself like someone for being not-Lorelai just proves you're not over her._

The last page of that notebook popped up in nightmares. Lorelai abruptly shutting down, turning away, meant one thing. In earlier times, it told him she was a flake. Now, Luke knew it meant she'd found out about Susan, exactly in mid-sentence, and felt foolish.

 _I'm a class-A jerk_ , his inner Other-Luke provided too helpfully.

One line in particular leapt out in his head. Early in the notebook, Lorelai had written, _I thought once Luke Danes was in your life, it was forever_.

Reality check, sighed Luke. He talked that game. He didn't _play_ it. He could. Had tried, particularly with Lorelai, renovating the house and so on. Yet…

Yet he found himself at the Dragonfly Inn. He had no idea how. He simply kept going back to it as Lorelai had once gone to his diner.

Michel blocked him from entering the lobby, cold, lean, derisive. "Oh, good, more scribbles. I will take them, please," said the Frenchman, and extended a hand.

He'd not sent a note since the shiny notebook arrived in the mail. He'd read it in one night, heart lightening, face beaming, until he fell asleep with it in his lap. Then he'd finished it during the late-morning lull, alone in his apartment. The notes! She understood! They could be okay! But he'd started dating Susan before Christmas, and the notebook showed up in January, and Lorelai knew he was dating someone. A terrible darkness bloomed in him that day, and hadn't left him.

 _What the hell was I thinking? How does dating Susan fix anything? Why did I think it could help with the custody case? Oh, right. Making excuses.  
_

By his smirk, Michel knew the time for those little notes was over. "Oh, a card with a silly puppy," crooned Michel. "How…" His face quirked into contempt. "Tacky."

"Look, Michel…" he began sternly.

"No, you look. You arrive, she cries, and I have to do more work. It is not acceptable."

The inn door had closed on his face. He blinked, wondering when Michel did that.

 _Okay, call Susan, tell her all about it. If everything with Susan is kosher, call her, tell her all about it!_ (That time, his inner Luke-self sounded entirely like a sardonic Jess. Luke himself would never use the word _kosher_. He didn't think, anyway.)

Luke groaned, head hanging. Even he was taunting him. Deservedly, to boot. And he still had to take Susan on a date or...

 _Or what? She dumps you? Yeah, that'd suck, getting dumped... Lucky guy._

Luke physically flinched from his own inner-Luke. He knew what he'd do to someone who hurt Lorelai, in his imagination, at least. He would have gleefully tied Christopher into the bed of his truck, face-down, on a bed of sharp stones, and taken him on a hell-ride over the worst roads in New England, making sure to hit every single bump and pothole... But he couldn't exactly do that to himself. Who would drive?

 _Crap. How do I get out of this?_

His inner other-Luke promptly replied, _Man up. Stop hiding. You might not get Lorelai back, but maybe we can look in a mirror and shave every day like normal guys do. Seriously, this stubble look itches, and it isn't down to anything but..._

Luke's cell phone made a noise, saving him from himself. He started, frowning. He'd gotten back to his truck, with no idea how, beyond his footprints in a fresh fall of snow. The caller ID indicated it was Susan. His mind went to the worst possible scenario. He gabbled as greeting, "Is April okay? What happened?"

There was a very odd pause, and then a chilly, "April is fine as far as I know. I thought I'd surprise you at your apartment for Valentine's Day."

He flushed uncomfortably. "Oh geez, Susan, look…"

"And there's this _novel_ written to you by some woman named _Lorelai_ that you never mentioned. And if I'm reading this right, she was supposed to marry you last summer!"

Anger erupted easily given an external target at last. "What the hell're you doing, reading that? It's not yours!"

"Cesar said you'd be back by one. I was waiting. I got bored. It was under your _pillow_!"

Luke glanced down at the Valentine's Day card in his hand, of a goofy cartoon beagle.

"I recognize this tree," he said.

"What?!" yelped Susan.

"I said," repeated Luke more strongly, "I recognize this tree. Get out of my apartment. Leave that notebook alone. You're not important enough to me to know about Lorelai."

It was, of all the break-up lines he'd never-quite-uttered, by far the most decisive. He had yelled once at Lorelai about Rachel's stupid jacket. It had seemed like an omen that any chance with Lorelai was as doomed as his relationship with Rachel had been. He needed to tell Lorelai that someday.

He needed to explain Susan, too. He felt sick to his stomach.

"Wow," said Susan thickly. "I knew you weren't going for commitment, but…"

"Leave April out of it, no hard feelings," interrupted Luke, studying the card that would just about do if he was buying it for a child. "This thing, you, me…"

"Yeah, it's over, I caught that, don't worry."

"I'll stay out of swim class," concluded Luke.

"Good idea. Good-bye."

She hung up before he could reciprocate.

He drove home. He cautiously entered the diner apartment. It seemed intact. The notebook, too. He pulled open a certain drawer, removed the box of condoms, and looked at the label. Quantity: 12. Actual contents, after dating his kid's swim coach for a couple of months: 9.

"Well," he said to himself, "at least this time I didn't need a self-help book."

GG GG GG

AN: Yes, I know, how awful. But consider that he dated her on the show (yes, the swim coach's name was Susan Bennett, total pain in the neck to discover), and obviously he was writing notes to Lorelai even so, which pretty much sums up the Ls, really.

Bronzing baby shoes for memento purposes is/was a thing. Don't ask me why.


	15. Chapter 15

Disclaimer: Again with the not-mine-ness.

AN: For some reason, site kept saying I did not update since two days ago. I did, so here is hoping this posts properly...

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Lorelai waved until Rory's car was out of sight. It had been good to see her daughter. Not so great to see Logan remained her choice, but then, Lorelai was in no place to criticize someone's love life. Her own history proved it.

She went inside, into the kitchen (ignoring the fact Paul Anka was currently growling at the refrigerator because, well, it was Paul Anka). She reached up and pulled down the stair-ladder to the attic. She sneezed, climbed up, her bucket of cleaning supplies bumping her leg.

First, she cleaned the windows. Then she wiped the walls with a cloth, damp-clothed her boxes and other stored items, and finally dust-mopped the flooring. It was vinyl, in a dark wood grain pattern that showed every bit of dirt. The sand-warm walls, by contrast, looked creamy-clean. Nodding, she went on to her last step. She took down the little curtains from the windows in the gable ends, and put up new ones. They were identical to the old, crisp white with broad red ribbon tie-backs.

She carried down two boxes labeled _Spring!_ Most contents were in their dollar-store bags. Cheap resin butterflies to set between the weather vanes. More pinwheels to line the walkway, maybe. Or she might, she concluded, surround the back porch with those. She had a month before spring arrived by season, if not by calendar, and lots of time to decide how to arrange little touches of cheer that weren't going to require a green thumb.

She plugged in her hot glue gun, assembled various bits and pieces, and settled in to make a springtime wreath for her front door. A plastic egg fell on the floor, sent the dog yelping for cover in his fireplace bed. Lorelai let him go, focused on cute little bright eggs, baby birds cut out of some indestructible material, a scarlet ribbon bow, white tulips made of what Lorelai hoped was fabric. "Day off," she ordered herself. "Do cute craft things. Therapy. Now."

She looked from the magazine to the things on her table, and did her best. She was glaring at the bow, glue gun in hand, teeth gripping her tongue as she concentrated, when the back door opened.

Lorelai threw the first available weapon. As it happened, it was a small plastic egg.

He flinched anyway.

"Hey," said Luke uncomfortably. "Red doors. Nice touch. Stands out. But, uh, why the back door, too?"

"Because it's my house and I can and the porch has red, too, it's very patriotic if I add some blue." Lorelai carefully placed the hot glue gun on the table, over a bit of foil, lest glue drip. "I didn't leave the key under the frog."

"I know."

"So how did you get in? And why?" Arms folded tight over her ribcage, Lorelai glanced at her phone, though she had no idea who she would call for rescue. "How did you find the key?"

"The windchimes are made of old keys."

"And?" seethed Lorelai, eyes stinging. She felt 911 becoming a real option. "I got it at the craft fair to raise funds for the high school drama department."

"So I figured that must be where you hid the housekey." He rubbed the back of his neck. "Um. I gave myself a month. To see if it was still the same."

"That's nice," replied Lorelai, marveling at the inanity of the conversation. "How have you been?" Mentally, she slapped herself for Most Banal Comment Ever. "Besides honing your _Mission: Impossible_ skills." There, she decided, that was better.

"I'm good. I mean, not great, but good. Doula's good. Liz is good. TJ's insane. The usual."

"April?" asked Lorelai politely. "She'll be fourteen next month."

Something passed over his face, pained and pleased at once. "Yeah. Uh. Because of her age. The judge is taking her wishes into consideration. Final ruling's going to be right around her birthday. Anna can't move to New Mexico till the end of school this year, at least."

"Oh. New Mexico." Lorelai dredged up her very scant knowledge of Nardinis. "Her mom?"

"Yeah. I still say it's smarter to bring her mom to Connecticut." He shrugged, looked up the stair-ladder, began opening cupboards at random, closing them. "So. Uh. This is not going the way I planned."

"Tell me about it," muttered Lorelai, not without sarcasm. "Looking for something?"

He stopped turning over a mug that had a dragonfly on it, set it down, and shook his head. "Did you ever do something to prove you were over someone, and all it did was prove you weren't?"

"Not exactly that," hedged Lorelai, her thoughts going to Jason. Better what she could get than what she couldn't, had been the logic at the time. Needling Emily had allowed her an excuse, no more, and Lorelai mentally sighed at the shame she felt. To Luke, she said merely, "I understand the concept. Luke, why are you breaking into my house? I have a doorbell."

"Oh," said Luke. "I keep forgetting you have one. That works. Right. Sorry. Um."

Lorelai exploded, "Would you just spit it out? I have hobby craft stuff to do and silly movies to watch and a day off to enjoy, damn it!"

She slapped her hand right down on the glue gun. The tip was hot enough to melt acrylic. She hiccupped in pain, snatching her hand away.

The next thing she knew, Luke was holding her hand under cold running water, muttering, "Oh geez, where's the first-aid kit, you have one, right, you never have one, what am I thinking, oh wow, this is gonna blister, that's…"

Sobbing, Lorelai wobbled out, "First-aid kit. Drawer to left. Of stove. I cut. Salads. There."

He disappeared for a heartbeat, returned, and exclaimed, "Lavender oil? What the hell?"

"You have it in the kitchen at the diner," she accused, "it's all green and natural and non-toxic-ish!"

He did, in fact, have that exact burn ointment, of lavender essential oil, vitamin E oil, tea tree oil, and some other nice safe happy oil. Spattering grease meant burns, he'd told her when she'd teased he smelled like perfume. The idea of a non-icky ointment had appealed to her.

Luke dabbed the red blistering patch on her palm. Lorelai shook. The whole situation was _wrong_ , and she wanted to run screaming. She blurted tearfully, "If we were right for each other, then we'd have worked, okay? And we didn't. And it sucks. And why're you _here_?"

Luke used non-stick gauze pads and tape to cover the injury. "So the blisters don't rupture too soon and you don't have direct contact with the ice."

He bustled off to her refrigerator, dug through the freezer for an ice cube, dropped it into a sandwich bag, and gave it to her to hold against her burn.

She wanted to banter, make distance, but she was too tired to quip about his making special trips to prevent blisters. She sank to a chair and watched dully as he unplugged the glue gun, poured two glasses of water, and sat down across from her.

"Why are you here?" she repeated mournfully, and stifled more sobs.

"You remember about wasted time and all in?"

She nodded. Her day worsened, against all expectations.

"I was seeing someone."

Proud that her voice was steady, Lorelai replied, "I know."

"Your dad said last fall. If we both wanted to try, to re-learn each other. We might. We _could_ make it. And when you started to come back. The notebook. Coming to the diner that time. Y'know."

Lorelai picked at a fraying patch on her jeans. "Yes, I do know. I got the message, Luke. Actions speak. Yours said…"

He broke in, face taut, shoulders hunched. "That I'm a coward. I could do notes. I couldn't do more. I ran. It hurt Susan, and you, and I asked her out when I should have asked you. Same as Nicole. Same as Rachel, only that was… When you wore her jacket, I decided that meant you'd be like her, and leave, so why bother. Okay? I'm a coward."

Lorelai drank water. She digested his words. She pushed her emotions into a box for later examination, and said kindly, "I should've talked to you, not waited till I filled up a notebook. I was scared. So I waited. I shouldn't have. Life's not a romantic movie."

"No, it's not," agreed Luke a little too quickly for Lorelai's taste. His skin changed from flushed to pale, back to a strangely embarrassed-seeming red. "I should go."

Bewildered, Lorelai shrugged. "Okay. Lock up on your way out, since you know where the key goes." Mentally, she amended _for now_. If it meant no more such invasions, she'd simply stop hiding a spare key, and change the locks. Luke had always said she took work, but she wondered if he knew how exhausting he was. And for the first time, she did not append "Dirty!" to that thought.

GG GG GG

Life for the young moved in rapid, interlocking whirlwinds. School. University. Job. Marriage. Children. The points on the graph looked discrete* and self-contained. In reality, Richard knew, they were overlapping tornadoes, some of which engulfed others, and none of which were as tidily arranged as on the mythical maps of How Life Happened.

For example, Rory's best friend had twin sons, a husband, in the proper order. Rory was off interviewing for jobs in New York, while allegedly standing godmother to the twins, all in the flushed excitement of opportunity and disappointment. The godfather was no surprise, apparently, to hear Rory tell it at Sunday dinner. Brian played in the same band as Lane and Zach, was known to hold responsible jobs and be a very level-headed sort of young man, and was a long-time friend. It made sense, Rory had said, then dashed off to Yale to pack for a trip to somewhere for something.

Lorelai's expression reminded Richard of what it had been when he had done that. Home, supper, pack, business trip, gone.

"But it's all good," his daughter insisted, with the bright toothy smile she used to hide hurts. "I mean, it's what she's wanted, we've wanted for her. Get out there, carpe the diem, be the next super-journalist, win a Pulitzer."

Richard dutifully listened, while parking his old Mercedes in a spot by the glossy dealership office.

"And now I'm really glad I changed houses, I mean, three bedrooms for me and a dog, when my kid's gonna be jet-setting it in no time?"

The pain was too much to bear. Richard put his hand over her forearm and squeezed. "Lorelai."

She surrendered the façade more readily than he'd thought possible. "I know. It's just. I was okay. I was Wonder Woman, sort of. Grabbing my life by the whatevers. Unsinkable me. And now the jeep is dead and I can't stop crying."

Richard nodded understandingly. "The grieving process is a peculiar thing, Lorelai. I thought myself quite composed, quite settled, about my father. Then, in university, I encountered the smell of his cigars, and all the events in between did not matter. I believe I drank far too much and may have done something excessively stupid, but the point is…"

"The last straw," whispered his daughter. "When Gypsy said no more on the jeep. I wanted to ask for help. From Luke. But. I couldn't. He's in _that_ life. The one he didn't want me in. No dogs or Lorelais allowed."

"The jeep?" prompted Richard.

"When you like a girl, you ask her out, right?"

"Of course."

"And if you're just friends, you don't."

Remaining baffled, Richard slowly agreed, "Correct."

Lorelai raised sorrow-filled blue eyes to his. "When the jeep died, I thought, hey, Luke keeps that old truck going, he'll know. But… I can't ask him. And the jeep… Dad, it's all I have left. That was just mine." She reached for her purse, fumbling until she found tissues. She blew her nose. "Then the jeep died, and there's this thing I bought, with money I earned by cleaning bathrooms and making beds, that meant I'd _made it_. I had a car. A big grown-up thing I did by myself. Nobody helping."

"Oh," slipped out of Richard as full comprehension set in. "Oh my dear."

"And now it's gone, too. Rory. Luke. The house. Coffee. It's all _gone_ , Dad, and I feel like getting another car is… It's…"

Her hands tried to shape the words she needed.

Richard supplied them. "When you buy another car, you will feel as though you've betrayed yourself."

"Oh my God, I'm stupid," his daughter sobbed into her handful of tissues. "Certifiable nutjob stupid. It's a car. Who cares?"

A collector of antique autos, Richard could say much on the subject, but knew it was not the time. Later, he promised himself, he would tell her how the classic old autos gave him a sense he remained connected to fairy-tale worlds described by his mother and father. At the moment, Lorelai had to get a new car. She enjoyed riding her bicycle, he knew, but she could not be expected to ride it to New Haven to visit Rory, nor to Hartford, to visit _him_.

"I went to the library," his daughter announced as they left the sanctuary of the old Mercedes, rich with the scent of years of Richard's bay rum cologne and leather conditioner. "I know what the consumer advocate magazines say are best. I can't afford those. And it has to be able to fit Paul Anka in his doggy crate."

Richard's opinion of the cars around them was not repeatable in polite company. "I assume… I hope… You've narrowed it down?"

"These have space, these have safety, these have price," said Lorelai, handing him three different sheets of paper from her purse. The pink and purple stars around the border reassured him. He had feared Lorelai would resort to bland linen paper in some shade of not-quite-white. If colorful silliness was involved, then his daughter was not entirely lost to herself.

Richard harrumphed, took out his reading glasses, and studied the three sheets. "The cars you can afford do not all appear on the lists that have space and safety. Nor space _or_ safety."

"Yeah, I know. And no, I don't want money, but if you've got advice, I'm all ears."

He studied her clothing. Something was odd. He pinpointed it as they approached the glass-walled building. "You are not dressed to, how do I put this nicely…"

"To use flirting to get my way?"

Richard reddened, cleared his throat, and admitted, "Well, yes."

"I tried that the other day," replied Lorelai forlornly, "and all I got was groped. And three invitations to dinner that sounded more like…" She scrunched up her face and deepened her voice. "Hey, baby, come up and see my stereo some time."

Despite himself, Richard chuckled, and put a kind hand on her shoulder. "Flattery didn't get them anywhere?"

"Nope. So today, I'm going in cold. Walking softly and bringing a big negotiator."

"Ah, my purpose revealed."

Within fifteen minutes, a greasy-seeming man was stuttering, "I, uh, I'm six feet even, sir, what does that have to do with, the, uh, this…"

"It's not my jeep," said Lorelai flatly, and left the Toyota sedan. "What else?"

What else took time. Test drives. Richard examining engines as if he understood any built after 1960. When Lorelai was browsing, worrying, comparing, or test-driving, he also took the time to walk to the dealership next door and do a bit of research. Negotiations always went better when a man came informed, if not actually armed.

Nine cars and five hours later, Richard found himself looming over a sales manager. He used his tried-and-true disarming, "What is your height?"

"Uh, five-six, what…"

"Fascinating. The average height of a man in America in your age group is closer to five-ten."

"Really," said the sales manager, sweating what may have been actual bullets of moisture. "Um…"

"Now, I grasp that this is business, I'm quite the businessman in some circles, and my daughter owns a business, we understand profit. I also understand _profiteering_."

"The, uh, base value of a…"

"Yes, yes, and I'm certain you're overpricing it by at least twenty-five percent, but you will reduce that to fifteen percent," said Richard smoothly, rather enjoying himself. "Do you see that young woman?"

"Er, yes?"

"That is my only child, and if she wants the nice safe Subaru Forest…"

He waited, smiling to himself. He always gave people that tiny comfort of superiority before he cut them off at the knees.

The manager corrected, on cue, "Forester."

"Then she will have it. It's only four years old, traded in for a smaller vehicle, I believe, unless the affiliated dealership next door lies."

The sales manager set his jaw and picked up a pen. "It's a good vehicle. But we do not have it in red. Or 'jeep green'. We have one, it is black, tan interior, the end, sir!"

"Which is fine," rumbled Richard, "but not at the price you're asking."

"I'll have you know…"

"Reduce the price, you oily little con artist," growled Richard, using his height to full advantage. "You will make a profit, my daughter has a car that meets her needs for space and also has an excellent safety record, and I will _not_ call the man from whom your employer leases this land. I am not without influence."

"So buy the car for her!"

"I respect my daughter's independence," said Richard, startled to find the words for once did not stick slightly in his mind or throat. "Your price is reasonable, for a 2005 or 2006, but certainly not that year."

Agreeing while disagreeing was, for Richard, such a standard tactic that he wondered how anyone rose to the title of _manager_ without being immune to it. It occurred to him that if he so desired, he could own the dealership within a month of being employed at any level in the place. It was a warm fuzzy glow in his soul to know he hadn't lost that wonderful _it_ of success.

"Okay, got it, you're holding aces, I've got queens," said the sales manager. "But we're not detailing it!"

"That's fine," said Richard in his most affable, stately manner, smiling as he polished his reading glasses. He was, after all, only a harmless old duffer, wasn't he?

The sales manager glowered. He would never see Richard that way again.

"Excellent," boomed Richard. "Lorelai!"

His daughter had red cheeks, snapping fire in her eyes, and a stomp hidden in her stride. The salesman had obviously been pushing her to look at still more vehicles, including the showpiece of the place, a used BMW. "Yes, Dad?"

"The manager mistook the pricing," said Richard happily. "A bit of confusion on the model year."

The sales manager showed her the revised price. Lorelai sat down by her father in the hard plastic chair, blinking. "Um. Dad. You didn't. Y'know. _Do_. Something. With a checkbook, maybe?"

"On my honor, no. I simply was curious as to the odd pricing on the vehicle, and asked a few questions."

Lorelai scowled at him, but her expression eventually eased. "Okay. You're not lying, but you're doing that thing, aren't you?"

"What thing?" he protested innocently.

"Uh-huh, right." Lorelai rolled her eyes. "Okay, a black thing with tan interior feels way too Hartford, but… It runs, it'll fit the dog, and it can handle winter, so if it's really this price… I'm in."

"Excellent!" chorused the sales manager and Richard.

"I can always buy seat covers in pink leopard print or something," muttered Lorelai, and looked at her bankbook with a tiny scowl curling her forehead. "Thirty percent down, Dad? I hate to tap the savings, but I'm thinking lower payments every month would be better."

Something struck Richard, in that moment. First, she was asking advice without sarcasm. Second, she was thinking in a way he understood. Cost-price-risk-benefit, both short-term and long-term.

Third, and most surprising of all, he was proud of her. Genuinely proud, no reservations, no regrets, no qualifying adjectives. She was headstrong, rebellious, unwilling to accept aid or ask for it, and one damn sharp cookie.

"Celebratory supper?" asked Lorelai when they left the building. "Because I know you did something, Dad. That guy had that face. The one that said he'd been Gilmore'd."

"Now why ever would…" he began, and admitted, "Well, yes, I may have pushed a very little bit. No more than is proper, I assure you."

"I wish you hadn't. No, wait, Dad, I'm not saying I'm not saying thank you, I am!" she hurried out, and in the lines of her face, he saw himself, and his mother, and her mother. "I'd like to think someday I won't need anyone. I needed Rory to keep me going. I needed Luke to help me out. I needed help for Chilton. Being needy _sucks_."

So had she looked as a toddler, who could not yet tie her shoes. Not childish, merely tired of requiring help for what she felt was hers to do. Richard considered his words with great care. "We're human. We need."

"I wish we didn't." Lorelai turned, hugged him hared. "Because it hurts when people stop needing you."

"Rory," guessed Richard, and pecked Lorelai on her forehead. "Now, there's an excellent little restaurant not a mile away, you can follow me in your new old car."

Lorelai smiled thinly. "On me, Dad. I mean it."

As Richard started his beloved old Mercedes, he mused that as much as he missed Emily and Lorelai missed Luke, neither would admit to it. There was too much chance of finding out they were not missed in return. Or, as his daughter would say, _needed_.

GG GG GG

AN: Sadly, the car dealership is based on a real one. Happily, I also walked away with ten percent off the total price.

*Discrete: singular, self-contained, individual, as in a point of data in statistics or an event in time unconnected to others. Discreet: careful, subtle, unobtrusive.


	16. Chapter 16

Disclaimer: For crying out loud… Not mine.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

It was a charity gala of which Emily was not an organizer. This once, she welcomed the opportunity to be a guest, no more, no less. It was a rather formal event, true, for something titled _Men Who Cook_ , but this particular incarnation of the concept was manned by the elites of Hartford. There was another version, with disgusting food, at a low-income high school gymnasium the following weekend, to raise funds for the United Way. _This_ , held in the grand hall of the Fox Building, required black tie and at minimum a cocktail dress, but preferably a formal evening gown.

It was also a rare event to which a woman or man could arrive alone, and cause no comment. Tables were made up of friends, and with the men cooking, or at least standing behind silver chafing dishes of something cooked by someone at some point, the women could enjoy a good gossip.

The concept of going about, banquet style, to load up on food cooked by Hartford society husbands, had been adorable when suggested a year earlier. After a glimpse of the satin, silk, and similar, Emily wondered if perhaps the dry cleaners of Hartford had subversively sponsored the entire thing. The potential for disaster was high, particularly when Emily considered the wine bottles at each table.

She adjusted her grip on her clutch purse. At her throat, pearls. Over her arms and covering the flowing A-line skirt of her gown, the finest possible chiffon only a shade lighter than her deep green satin dress with its classic squared-sweetheart neckline. Pearl-diamond earrings and bracelet completed her ensemble. She'd had her hair recently and subtly highlighted, as well, to enhance its warm color.

Richard Gilmore was a cook tonight, and Emily Gilmore would be damned if he didn't regret letting her go.

She heard his booming laugh, turned her head slightly the other way, as if scanning the room for her nearest friends. She knew her table number (one, of course) and its location (nearest the French doors overlooking a garden full of new-bloomed tulips). It was a ploy, no more.

She let her gaze skim around, and there was Richard, big and tall and wearing a new suit jacket size. He looked idiotic with the eponymous _Men Who Cook_ apron covering his shirtfront and tied about his waist, and had his arm around some woman. Heat flashed through Emily, followed by ice. Tall, thin, too much skin exposed, and wearing either an honest-to-God 1930s Chanel sequin dress (Emily guessed it to be early 1930s, probably sequins and fine silk tulle, by the drape) or the best replica Emily had seen in over a decade. The sleeveless gown showed most of the woman's back, and her profile as she turned showed a bow tucked in at the bust, and a Chanel gored-to-flare elegance from mid-thigh. Emily nodded to herself. A replica. Coco would have had a second bow, no doubt of it, and the sequins were a touch too modern. All in all, Emily seethed, it was a lovely dress of a color not quite known in English, a blue with a rich gray undertone. Her mind supplied the word _saxe_ , but her emotions screamed _sexpot bitch_ before she realized the brunette was wearing a necklace once owned by _Trix_. She had left it for Lorelai, but Emily never had gotten around to passing it to her daughter, reasoning that someone in Stars Hollow would steal the loops of dainty gold chain finished by a silly gold-bead tassel.

The woman laughing with Richard was Lorelai. Who, somehow, had obtained that necklace.

Emily burned with unidentifiable emotion. That was her decision to make, if Lorelai received the necklace. _Hers_.

From somewhere else, Rory emerged in a tasteful pink satin sheath, and dangling diamond earrings that had been a Christmas present to her from Emily.

She worked her way through the crowd in time to see a photographer snap an image of Richard, grinning with an arm around each of what Emily heard him call _my girls_.

"Thank you for coming to support the old man," said Richard to them.

"Dad…"

"Grandpa, you said that like twenty-eight times."

"Then it's twenty-nine."

One sniff told Emily what Richard had cooked. His ludicrous casserole, idiotically named _Johnny Machete_. What it truly began as, Emily had no idea, but it involved horrendous amounts of egg noodles, beef, sausage, tomato slop, mushrooms, and orange cheese. It was a gourmand rule of thumb, in Emily's opinion, to never touch any cheese colored remotely orange, or even deep yellow.

"Wow, Dad, that looks… Well, edible, no offense."

Richard snorted. "Thank you for that, Lorelai, but for the record, I found out it's really some form of goulash, apparently, and Miss Cartman was kind enough to enlighten me as to a few of its finer points."

Lorelai took a tiny taste off a tiny plate, and blinked. "Wow, I mean, _wow_ , Dad!"

Rory purred, "Ultimate heavy-duty feels-bad-for-you food."

Richard gave a silly smile. "I discovered I shouldn't use creamed soups, and it required celery and garlic."

"Girls!" Emily sang, opening her arms wider than her smile. "My goodness, you're stunning, Rory! And Lorelai, is that Trix's charming old thing?"

The slam was meant for the long-departed Trix, but Lorelai's eyes tightened. "Yeah, it was Gran's necklace."

"And the dress is from, um, what do you call it, a vintage boutique?"

"Mom made it," said Rory a little too sharply for Emily's liking. "She saw a picture of a Chanel and Miss Patty gave her the sequins for free."

"Good heavens," said Emily in honest awe. "You stitched each one by hand?"

"Long winter," shrugged Lorelai verbally. "I can't knit very well, but I like sewing. You look very nice, too, Mom."

"Yes, Emily, you look quite nice," agreed Richard. He smiled, and moved behind his cooking station. "What a wonderful turnout."

"Yes," confirmed Emily blandly. "Do you know what on earth this is raising funds for? I've been so busy I haven't even had time to check."

"But you'll write a check," muttered Lorelai, then flushed, to Emily's great satisfaction. "Sorry. Dad?"

"Restoration, again, or replacement, I can't recall, of the Founders Monument."

"Oh, the big phallic symbol of the people who started Hartford," said Rory with such tactlessness that Emily knew the girl was _not_ drinking water. "Pink granite again or still or what?"

"Oh, pink granite, I'm sure, now to your table, we have to endure the opening speeches while our food congeals!"

The Gilmore girls sat, at the table directly next to Richard's station.

Emily nodded politely at Richard. She swept off, greeting a dozen ore more people as she walked, and joined her dearest friends (or nearest enemies, as the moment dictated) exactly one moment before the tedious speeches began.

She read the program through her lashes as two old men and one squeaky-voiced young woman went on at length about how vital it was to have the names of the Hartford Founders preserved in stone grandeur. She did not doubt a moment that Richard had paid for Lorelai and Rory, given the price of the tickets, and there were friends of Rory's from Yale at their table, as well. Olive or whatever her name was, and that other girl. They all seemed quite at ease with one another.

When the tables were invited to begin making the rounds of the stations to try and taste all the so-called "wonderful food", Emily rose as if joining the queue. Then she slipped away, toward the restroom, and took several cooling breaths. Pride demanded she stay. It also demanded she leave. Even as she stared at her reflection, she knew, that table of friends would be whispering about the divorce and the terms of it and how she looked and how Richard did.

The door creaked open. Both Rory and Lorelai entered. The latter locked the door.

"Ah, I'm a hostage," Emily said lazily. "To what…"

"Hey, Mom," said Lorelai, fidgeting with the tassel of the necklace. "I didn't mean to sound, okay, well, I wanted to, but, the point is, I apologize for before. If you'll feel more comfortable if I leave, then I can go."

Had she sounded like a martyr, Emily would have pounced. She simply sounded worn, and sad.

With a heavy sigh, Emily said, "Oh, Lorelai, nobody is comfortable. Not in this situation, and certainly not facing that horrible food."

"You sure you're okay, Grandma?" asked Rory anxiously, her cheeks matching her dress.

"I am fine, Rory, I am perfectly well, and it will be a lovely evening. I do hope you won't drink if you're driving?"

"Dry as the Sahara," said Lorelai solemnly.

"Not driving," said Rory cheerfully.

Emily fumbled for conversation. "Miss Patty had the sequins?"

"Lots of old costumes," said Lorelai, "and a lot of patience."

The insight into how often alone her daughter must have been, to accomplish that dress, gave Emily a chilly pang. She searched for something more to say, and found only, "Well, my table will miss me. If I may?"

Rory unlatched the restroom door. Emily left, regal, calm, and quite certain she'd somehow mucked it all up.

In the corridor, she snapped at someone carrying an ice bucket, "For pity's sake, pay attention, you're dripping!"

The startled young man leapt back, stammering.

Emily did not feel one bit better.

GGGGG

"So my mother's entire life, her medical care, all of that has to change, because _you_ can't stay out of our lives!" screeched Anna.

April hovered between them. "Mom," she said.

Luke stepped away, snapped, "Keep your voice down! We're in the middle of town!"

"Well, it's not your town, what do you care?"

Fighting anger, Luke leaned on the rail of the courthouse steps they'd moments ago descended. The custody arrangements were finalized, the judge handing down the decision. Per his request, he had April every other weekend, alternate holidays, and four weeks of her summer break from school. At April's request, visitation was whenever their schedules allowed. Anna's demand to be able to move out of state, however, was denied. The judge had said, with marvelous indifference, "Miss Nardini, you prevented him from knowing his child for over a decade. I think it's safe to say there's a high risk you'd use relocation to the same end." While Luke found that justified, Anna had not.

"How _dare_ you?" Anna spat, red-cheeked and murder-eyed. "I don't have the money for this!"

"What the hell is with you and money?" erupted Luke, dimly aware that this was a fight they'd had well over a decade earlier. He'd been pricing items for the diner menu. He understood profit, but Anna had been downright greedy, as he recalled. "April's schools are here, her friends are here, her family is here, your mother can get good doctors here, what the hell's your problem!"

"Dad," said April helplessly.

" _My_ problem is _you_ ruining _our_ lives!"

"Mom, Grandma can have my room and…"

"She cannot, she can't walk upstairs!"

April tried to interrupt again. "Then we'll…"

"I can add a room, at my expense!" roared Luke. "Will that shut you up?"

Nobody was paying attention, in that way people paid no attention while avidly enjoying the show, which partially motivated Luke's offer and insult. He hated gossip, he hated being watched, and he hated that he'd failed to keep his temper. All three at once left him sweating pure frustration.

"I don't need your money!"

Luke forced himself to sound quieter, no matter how loud he felt. "Then what do you _want_?"

"For you to leave us alone."

April squalled, " _Shut up!_ "

Suddenly, the onlookers became passers-by, and the show ended.

Confused, Luke stared at his daughter. "April…"

"Mom, I didn't want to move, you know that, you didn't care! All you wanted was to take me away from Dad! _Again_!"

Luke almost smiled. His kid was on his side!

April whipped around and said furiously, "And we don't need your _money_! We need my grandma to be okay!"

Anna's flashing smile of triumph died mid-birth.

"Oh my God," said April in despair that cut Luke's heart. "You're both so stupid and selfish! You!" Her finger jutted accusingly at Anna. "You didn't want me to have a dad!" She whirled back, the same finger wielded sword-like at Luke's nose. "And _you_ never told me I could've had a little brother or sister!"

All warmth fled Luke. "How did you know that?" he growled.

April rolled her eyes and shoved her glasses back into place. "Lane told me. When I asked why everyone stopped coming to the diner. She didn't know that I didn't know, that's not her fault."

"What's she talking about, Luke?" shrilled Anna, but quietly. Her face no longer matched her crimson lipstick. "What little brother or sister?"

His bones were lead. Frozen lead. He managed a dull, "Lorelai was pregnant, we broke up when she told me."

April gasped, and recoiled physically from him. "Then it's true! That _is_ why you broke up with her! How _could_ you?"

"See, April?" he heard Anna say smugly. "I told you that he wasn't…"

"Shut up, Anna, just…" He loosened his tie, one Lorelai had chosen so long (so near!) ago, with shaking fingers. "You don't know…"

"I told them you'd never do that! When they said you broke up with her because she was pregnant, I told them you'd never do that!" April cried, and her shoulders hunched. "Because you love _me_ , so you wouldn't leave someone because of a baby! Was Mom right? Was she right?"

A tiny spark of hope helped Luke speak. April had believed better of him. That was vital. That was _all_. "No! No, Anna wasn't right. I, we, me and Lorelai… We… She doesn't… And I don't…"

April's reprimand struck like ice. "Words, _Luke_ , try words!"

He pulled his daughter to him, in a hug, though she was board-stiff and unyielding. "I freaked out. Then she freaked out. We both freaked out. I love you, April, that's not ever a question, I'd always love you. I…" His chest clenched and he momentarily wondered if he'd suffer the fabled widowmaker heart attack, before recognizing that April was squeezing him. "I didn't tell you because I thought that was protecting you. If you didn't know about the miscarriage, you didn't have to feel bad."

"You're an idiot," sobbed April into his coat.

"Yeah, I'm an idiot," agreed Luke firmly, and patted her back awkwardly. He chanced a look at Anna, dreading some sort of contempt, but saw only confusion on her face. "And I'd spend anything to keep us together, okay? If your grandma needs her own room, then we build her a room, because you need that, and I can't fix anything, but I can make your grandma have a room."

"I still think you're…" began Anna.

"Yeah, join the club," Luke replied between waves of contradictory emotions. "I think there's a waiting list."

"I won't let you buy your way out of…"

"April needs her house to have a room for her grandmother," sighed Luke, glad to feel April's sobs ebbing to hiccups. "And if it keeps you from dragging this back to court, then it's worth it." He stroked April's head once, tentatively, unsure how his teen daughter felt about having her hair mussed. "For her sake."

Luke wished Lorelai was there. She'd make a bad joke or irritate Anna or cajole April into a smile, yes, but first and last, Lorelai would understand.

GG GG GG

AN: I've no idea about custody or divorces. The laws vary wildly state to state in the USA. My guideline is what I know from my in-laws and their marital and custody woes. Apologies to Connecticut natives for my errors. I own the errors. And this dreadfully overblown fic. Yeesh. It's cheaper than therapy, at least…

 _Men who Cook_ is real. My husband participates. Formality and charity vary by location. (Ours went high-brow and we quit going.) The Hartford Founders' Memorial obelisk is also real. I chose "Fox Building" as a compromise between a real Hartford venue and an imaginary one. Johnny Machete, btw, is probably a noodle-meat dish similar to Americanized goulash. Its name is (we think?) Johnny Marzetti, and it seems to have started in the US Midwest, so why Richard knows it remains a mystery. Then again, he ate "Turtleneck Soup", too.


	17. Chapter 17

Disclaimer: Blah yada mumbo-jumbo not mine.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Lorelai Gilmore slammed into Luke's Diner with such emotion that the door bells swung, and stuck, unable to jingle.

She snarled at the midday crowd, " _Get out_."

Zach, holding two plates, wearing an apron, said, "Sure," and ambled into the back. A moment after, Luke erupted out of the kitchen, demanding, "What the hell is…"

Lorelai snarled. Her finger jabbed the air in his direction, then her own. "You. Me. Talking. _Now._ Audience or no audience?"

"You can't just…" began Luke.

Emotion fueled a very loud, very curt, "Shut up!"

"Upstairs," said Luke.

"Like hell I'm going upstairs," spat Lorelai, heat bubbling through her that was entirely unrelated to the May temperatures.

Luke took a breath, yelled, "Zach! Keep working!" and took Lorelai's arm. She yanked it free, hissing like water on a hot griddle. At his nudge, she went outside and followed him to the town square, imagining a hundred gruesome ways for him to suffer.

They hadn't yet reached the gazebo when Luke shouted, "What the hell do you think you're doing, coming into my diner, making a scene, telling people what to do!"

"What do _I_ think I'm doing? How many women are you going to have houses with, Luke? Huh?" Voice shrill, Lorelai poked his shoulder hard, and he stumbled back two paces, hands upraised as if he expected to be arrested. "Nicole, me, _Anna_ , who else? Buy a house, renovate a house, expand a house, fix a house!"

"You're insane!"

Lorelai flung her dignity to the warm spring winds. It had long since gone, anyway, as far as she knew. " _I'm_ insane?! You're the one who has the thing for houses he never lives in!"

Luke threw his baseball cap to the ground and ran a hand over his thinning hair. "Look, April's grandma needs her own room and bathroom or Anna's gonna try to overturn the custody thing and I'll do what I want!"

"Yes, you do! All that crap all those years about my parents and Hartford, and _you_!" Lorelai sob-shouted, hands clenched in fists at her sides. Her body shook with the power of the emotions racing and chasing each other through her. "You do what you want! Poor Luke, he didn't get to plan a wedding he never wanted! Poor Luke, he has to fix up a house, Lorelai's so selfish, Luke never _moved in_!"

"Lorelai," escaped Luke, in a pained whine not unlike Paul Anka facing a flight of stairs.

"Why?" Lorelai begged. "Why, Luke? Why? _Why_? If you hated me, if you just wanted horizontal mambo…" She curled up while standing, crying uncontrollably, that desperate nagging need to know eating her alive. "Why? That's all I want to know. Why did you ever let something start with us if you didn't _want_ it? Why didn't you just buy Twickham House ten years ago and have your dream _house_? I don't _understand_!"

"Lorelai, calm down, take a breath, you're going to pass out," said Luke urgently, but she ignored him, pushed his hands off hers.

She hiccupped, and stopped rambling. She rubbed her eyes with her forearm, leaving make-up smeared on it. With a sinking sensation in her stomach, she realized she'd again made a scene. Not that no one else did, but Luke hated scenes, unless he made them while on a rant or something similar.

Her mouth forced out sensible words. "I have to go."

She started toward her Forester, stumbling over nonexistent cracks in the sidewalk. Her whole body hurt, but her lungs and stomach throbbed worst of all. Her head spun. She breathed in tiny little wheezes. What she wanted was, more than anything, to have never heard that Luke was building rooms for Anna. That it was for easier custody of April explained it. She knew that in her _head_. What her _heart_ felt, however, was stabbed. He built rooms for children they would never have together at the Crap Shack. He'd bought Twickham House to fill it with children. But his only child was April, with Anna, and that had to overrule all else. She understood that, she had, she _did_.

Until the point Luke had said _Who's the lucky guy?_

Until she heard that Anna's house was getting an in-law suite, on Luke's money. The way her house had been upgraded. Her inn. And that meant… It meant…

Her breath hitched into staccato attempts for air.

Almost a year had gone by since a certain awful day, and for Lorelai, the pain had resurrected itself like a zombie, for no better reason than Jackson's information about Luke's personal life. The one Luke had left her out of to such a degree that she marveled she ever felt it was love, and wondered how pathetic she was that she could think it was That Love.

"Lorelai, _stop_!"

She blinked, tipped her head. Luke was pale, as if he stood in a cold wind.

"Oh," she said dully. "I said all that out loud."

Ashen under his stubble, Luke nodded.

"Okay then. Well. Show's over, resume your regular program." She scrubbed her other forearm over her face. "The house thing just… I'm sorry. I apologize. Rory's graduating soon and it's making me realize how much has changed, and how much I didn't want it this way, and you're fine with it all, and it's kinda hard to take. Which is my problem. Not your problem. I mean, hey, things change, right?" She drew in air, relieved that she could do so, and felt her heart rate dropping to normal.

"Things change," agreed Luke woodenly.

Lorelai finally managed to open the door, staring hard at the cheerful tropical print seat cover that hid the dull tan upholstery. She had slapped a _Proud Yale Mom_ bumper sticker on the back, and a window decal shaped like a dragonfly, for the inn. She wanted to name it, but nothing worked, other than the vehicle itself. It felt too much like her life.

"This is yours," said Luke of the vehicle.

"Yeah. Jeep died. Gypsy couldn't fix it and nobody could find a new engine."

"It's a good car," said Luke.

The impersonal nature of the conversation made Lorelai flinch. "Yeah. Um. So. I'll just keep staying away because that seems to work. Y'know. Your life. My life. No our life. Got it. Oh my God, this was humiliating."

It took three tries to start the engine, and Lorelai pulled away very carefully, hating herself. She had a daughter graduating from Yale. She had an inn. She had a weird dog. One thing she did not have, and would not have, was Luke Danes. The reason, of course, was her wild emotionality, per usual, and she'd done it again. Where he lived, what he did, wasn't her business. After the last year, she'd hoped she'd accepted that. It was what he wanted. He'd _shown_ that. Over and over.

She pulled over, and let herself cry, yet again.

GG GG GG

His daughter had left home, but not in the usual way. Lorelai had not gone off to university, come home for breaks between terms and on holidays, graduated in full pomp and circumstance, to then and only then truly leave the nest.

Thus, Richard found himself somewhat more confused than average when it came to his daughter's mood. Their lives had changed a great deal, and it _was_ quite a lot to handle, but somehow, Rory's impending graduation was hitting Lorelai in a way that Richard barely grasped.

Eventually, she spoke. "I'm glad the cardiologist said your new medication is doing a good job. No dizzy spells or anything, you promise, right?"

Richard laughed quietly, gently. "Lorelai, I long ago learned I cannot lie to doctors and expect to get away with it. Sooner or later, all those tests tell the truth anyway. No, the new medication and I are getting along quite well, thank you." He paused, studying her profile, her fingernails digging into the steering wheel, and added, "Thank you again. For driving me to and fro on no notice."

"Will the old Mercedes live?"

"Oh yes, it will belch diesel again." Richard grumbled wordlessly to himself. "But not in my care. Car shopping with you inspired me."

Lorelai checked her rear-view mirrors, and merged into the turning lane, the signal clicking softly. "New Mercedes?"

"Oh heavens, no."

"Red Porsche?"

She meant humor. She cut. Brittle broken glass shell bits were poking out of her, in his fancy.

Richard allowed her tone, with a gruff, "As it happens, an Audi. Leg room at my height is a valuable commodity in a sedan. Lorelai."

"Can we not talk about it?"

Wishing he'd tried this thirty years sooner, Richard ventured a tentative, "How bad?"

"If I talk, I cry. Bad driving."

They reached his house. His _home_ , he acknowledged. No weight, no expectation, save of his own creation. He understood Lorelai better, now that he had this freedom from heritage and appearances. He was still Richard Gilmore, and preferred bow ties, martinis, and golf. He was lonely, sometimes, and missed Emily's fussing. Yet to be able to sit about in his robe and slippers to read, if he so chose, outside the bedroom, when he so chose, was somehow far more liberating than he'd have imagined a year earlier.

Richard took a chance, after unsnapping the seat belt. "What did Luke do?"

Lorelai emitted a broken wail that transported Richard to Emily after Lorelai left, to Lorelai a year earlier, to the sheer panic and despair of _loss_. In her blubbering, he could pick out words like _Rory graduate leave alone nobody dog April Anna_ , before she asked him in shivering grief, "Why can't I be okay with it, too?"

Richard said the first thing that came to mind. It was a Gilmore habit, at the most inopportune moments. "You sound like Emily."

It was merely an observation, spurred by old memories.

His daughter literally appeared to freeze. Then she whipped around to face the windshield, digging blindly in her purse for a packet of tissues. She blew her nose, and dried her face, in lethal silence. After some interminable amount of time, she said simply, "I should get back to work. I'm glad you're doing well, Dad. I'll see you Sunday."

Somehow, Richard found himself on his doorstep, alone.

"Ridiculous!" he said, to see if the universe cared. Judging by the lack of response, it did not.

A long-held rage made its way to the surface, not unlike magma. After all, Lorelai had shamed their family name, destroyed her mother, and if he wanted to be a cad, he could find a way to blame her for his marital woes, too. Oh, he could cut Lorelai to shreds with some well-chosen words, did he so choose, but Richard had better targets.

An hour later, the taxi dropped him outside Luke's Diner.

"Wait," said Richard to the driver.

"Sir, the fare's going to be, y'know, five hundred bucks as it is. We charge five a mile outside Hartford and…"

"Wait," commanded Richard, and flicked a fifty-dollar bill into the man's lap. "Two more for a tip when we reach Hartford."

The man stared at the bill in shock. "Okay, you're the boss."

Richard pushed open the door of Luke's Diner. He knew it was not all Luke Danes. He knew it was himself, and Emily, and the world, and the situation.

He nonetheless did what he hadn't the previous year.

He walked up to the unsuspecting diner owner, and punched him. It was an enraged roundhouse, and it snapped the other man's head to the side.

Stunned, Luke blinked, and felt his face. White-hot inside, Richard boomed, "I should have destroyed you. I do not know, nor do I _care_ , how you have managed to go merrily along with life as if you did not reduce _my daughter_ to the status of an _inconvenience_. I have no concern whatsoever for your well-being, or your alleged character. _Stop making my daughter cry!_ "

To his considerable surprise, Luke Danes squared off and sniped, "You're one to talk. Get the hell out."

Richard threw his best verbal punch with a thin-lipped smile that had earned him a reputation on three continents. When Richard Gilmore smiled that way, businessmen around the world wished they weren't in the room. "It was never your financial status. It was _you_. As with _Christopher_ , a perennial adolescent, who, faced with adult responsibilities, found any escape he could, no matter the damage he did."

The use of that name did more than the punch. Veins stood out on the younger man's forehead. "Don't compare me to that…"

"Whyever not? You both left women to raise children alone, you both hurt Lorelai repeatedly, you both abandoned her for other women, you…"

" _I know!_ "

The shout bounced off walls and silenced even those few diners hurrying to finish their meals while they could.

"I know," said Luke more quietly. "Shut up, get the hell out."

"There is no apostrophe," called Richard as Luke turned away from him, making sure all heard. "Williams, no apostrophe, is a surname, or a terrible error in the sign."

Luke's shoulders bunched tight. Richard braced for a blow.

"Upstairs."

"Hardly," retorted Richard.

Luke slapped a baseball cap on his leg. It was a garish color, something to do with a soccer team, he thought.

Luke marched outside, and Richard followed out of curiosity. The punch had taken most of his anger with it. Now he wanted to know the unknowable. The question he had to face: _Why do you hurt those you love more than you ever hurt strangers?_

Once on the sidewalk, Luke said, "My dad kept the sign for Mom, and to keep business coming in, it was _her_ dad's store first. Then Dad bought it and fixed it up and kept the sign. Her last name was Williams."

"Ah," said Richard in an attempt at civility. "You never mentioned their names."

"You know them. You had a private investigator snoop around my life!"

"I didn't read the file. Emily had it, and I never asked."

Luke's inhalation sounded, to Richard, like a baby's first breath, a startled intake of this alien thing known as _air_. "My dad's nickname was Bill, but his real name was Lawrence. His brother was Louis."

"How does one get _Bill_ from _Lawrence_?"

Luke studied his shoes. "Dad hated being called Larry. There was a Bosoxer he kinda looked like a little, named Billy Goodman, he threw right and batted left, same as my dad, so… I guess it stuck." He shrugged, gave Richard a wry, tight look. "Mom's name was Mary Elizabeth, but everyone called her Ellie. Her mom's name was Mary, too. Why am I having this conversation?"

"You are very good at diversion. Not, however, good enough."

"Look, I had my chance, I blew it."

"Ah. And so wrote letters to my daughter, invaded her home, in order to again flee at the first chance, then second and third and twentieth chances as well! You did not blow your chance, as you charmingly phrase it," sneered Richard. "You had no intention of _taking_ the chance. Your choice, Mr. Danes, but not one I can approve. I have never seen Lorelai broken, until you. I have never known she could beg, until you. I have never realized how deeply inadequate she feels, until you. I am a slow learner, I admit, as I could have noticed all this much sooner, but you see, love is a blinding force. I loved Emily too much. You loved Lorelai too little."

Luke lunged. "Don't tell me that!"

Richard grunted as he caught part of a half-hearted punch on the arm. "Why not? Isn't it true?"

Luke breathed out, " _What?!_ "

"Did you ever carve a wedding arch for _your_ wedding to Lorelai?"

Luke's jaw sagged.

"Did you make your daughter part of your life with Lorelai?"

Luke's jaw snapped tight.

"Are you with Anna?"

"God no!"

"Then why couldn't you be with Lorelai?"

"It's complicated!"

Richard surrendered. "Oh stop whining, you sound like Lorelai when she's trying to avoid her mother. Love is simple. It is not _easy_. Lorelai has a child by someone else, that didn't bother you, so why should it bother _her_ if you are in similar straits?"

"It's different!"

"Oh, balderdash," said Richard, and went to the waiting cab. He slid into the rear, and said, "To Hartford, please."

"You got it."

Richard leaned back. He closed his eyes. If nothing else, he might at least have prompted the diner owner to consider what was lost, and by more than himself.

AN: Billy Goodman was real. Career 591 RBI. Boston Red Sox. Before anyone screams, "But Wiki says the dad's name was William!"… That's because the sign was Luke's dad's, but it reads "Williams". If it were possessive, it would read "William's". And since Luke's family all has to come from elsewhere for Louie's funeral in "Dead Uncles & Vegetables"… I ran with the idea.

BELATED AN, added publication date:"Left for another woman" could be Swim Coach, or (in Richard's perception/anger) Anna. Luke's "I know" refers to the accusations in general, and isn't an admission about other women, but about hurting Lorelai. Richard had quite a rant there. Sorry it wasn't clear.

GG GG GG


	18. Chapter 18

Disclaimer: So sick of saying this. I hate my life, I hate this fic, so who'd want to sue me over it?

AN: THIS CHAPTER WILL BE POSTED WITH CHAPTER NINETEEN, SINCE THE END OF THIS FLOWS DIRECTLY TO NEXT. Brace yourselves for a long chapter full of Luke trying to articulate and everyone wishing Emily wouldn't!

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

There would be no party, no grand farewell. Rory had a chance, and any opportunity must be seized at once. It was the way of the world that Emily didn't understand anymore.

She listened, her sobs unable to escape around her need for composure, as Rory said fervently, "I'm so sorry, Mom, please, it's just, it's, y'know, and besides, Logan… I just… It's go time, and I can't wait. I want to wait, but I can't wait. Oh no, I'm crying again!"

"So am I," sniffled Lorelai, cradling Rory in a hug. "It's okay, sweets. Time to spread those wings. You're gonna do great."

"Mom," wept Rory. "I'm going to miss you. So much."

"Call every day."

"Every hour."

"Every ten minutes."

"Okay, then I'll never get anything done," sniffed Rory, stepped back, and beamed tearfully. "My stuff…"

"Is safe and sound in the attic, I'm holding it hostage!"

"Send me pictures for proof of life?"

Emotions roiling, Emily exploded. "Can the two of you take _nothing_ seriously!"

The dual glares, from near-identical blue eyes, told Emily how badly she erred. They did take it seriously. They simply did not cope as she did. Lorelai and her damn humor, like Trix and her damn _tricks_ , had rubbed off on dear, sweet Rory. The marks on her granddaughter could never be erased. Lorelai's perversity, sass, should not have happened in Rory. Those should not be matching expressions.

"I should have raised her, I should have tracked you down and taken her home, where she belonged, away from _you_!" Emily spat viciously at Lorelai. "Gotten police, lawyers, whatever it took, but no, your father was too soft, he had to say he didn't want to cut off all chance of seeing _you_ , well, if I never had, and it meant Rory was raised _properly_ , then good for me, and good riddance to you!"

Lorelai's skin paled, but her back and jaw went tight. "Mom. Don't…"

"Oh for God's sake, Lorelai, you're a train wreck, you have been for thirty years! Selfish, thoughtless, irresponsible, always treating life like a big joke at someone else's expense!"

The words were gone, out, along with the frustration and sorrow. Emily felt a stinging satisfaction in the silence that descended upon them. Truth being complex, she had, like Richard, never wanted to lose any chance to see Lorelai. She's been more aggressive about it, in fact, but one of the joys of divorce was being able to blame Richard without having to face consequences for it.

Suddenly, all of the Hartford airport seemed to look at her with disgust and dismay.

She adjusted her bag (Vuitton, classic) and smiled brightly at Rory. "Now, have a good flight, and be certain to let us know you've made it to Iowa in one piece." Arms open, she stepped toward Rory, and threw a sidelong smirk at Lorelai. As she expected, Rory gave her a hug. Nothing could take Rory from Emily, no matter how Lorelai tried, no matter how _life_ tried.

"Better go, kiddo," said Lorelai softly when Rory embraced her again. "I wish we'd had more time, but hey, a US Senator calls, you go."

"Well, more like a website that took pity on me, but yeah," agreed Rory, biting her lip a moment. "Mom?"

Lorelai closed her eyes. Emily watched, frowning slightly, as the two clung to one another, and Lorelai murmured, "I know. It's not easy but it's okay. Text, call, write, e-mail."

"Smoke signals," affirmed Rory, and then picked up her carry-on, and walked to the security checkpoint as if her feet weighed too much. When she turned, on the other side of the checkpoint, she waved at them. Lorelai gave a loud cheering, "Go get 'em!"

Rory simply waved again, and then hurried out of view, her gray Yale t-shirt vanishing her into the crowd.

Outside, on the pavement, Lorelai paused, a hand to her chest near the words _Yale Mom_ in white on a red t-shirt. Emily scowled. "Are you all right?"

"Oh good, Jekyll's back," sighed Lorelai, and shook her head in a way Emily knew but could not immediately identify. "I get it, y'know." Lorelai's eyes were sad, and compassionate. Somehow, it frightened Emily, who put a hand to her throat, touching her pearls. They were cool, and smooth, a reminder of youth, when her world was all promises not yet broken. "Emotions have to go somewhere and then it's all yuck, gross, kerblooey."

Emily's mouth worked, soundlessly. Tears stung her eyes.

Lorelai shook her head again. In it, Emily saw, to her surprise, her own mother. "Everyone does it. Booze, drugs, rants, stupid jokes, insults, whatever, we screw up and we can't fix it sometimes, and I just… I wanted you to know…"

A small jet streamed smoothly overhead. Emily glanced up, noting it was a Lear, not Rory's commercial flight. She returned her attention to her daughter.

"What you said? In there?" Lorelai's eyes flicked to the air terminal. "You can't fix that. You can't excuse it. You can't take it back. You can't say it was being stressed out or upset or any crap like that, okay? Because you've done that for over twenty years, and that's not a mistake, that's a _hobby_. So, just, y'know, we're done, okay?"

"You cannot cut off your own mother!"

Lorelai's expression was soft, pitying. "No, I mean, we're done. I'm done thinking you'll ever think I'm worth anything, and maybe you can be done thinking I'll ever turn into your perfect daughter. We're not getting some Oprah ending, or a big warm fuzzy hug, but maybe we can at least stop turning bad days into worse. We'll get along for Rory's sake like we did at graduation, and no more Hallmark fantasies."

Color scorched through Emily's cheeks, ebbed away. "I see," she replied. "Now what?"

"I go watch my kid's plane take off safely, and you go do whatever, and we see each other for birthdays and holidays. Take care, Mom."

Watching Lorelai walk away, to the parking lot, Emily drew breath to demand that Lorelai return, apologize, and let the air escape in a lonely little, "Oh."

She fumbled in her purse. She pulled out her phone. Richard picked up immediately. "Emily? Are Rory and Lorelai all right?"

"Yes, of course, Richard, I merely wanted to…" And Emily stopped, not certain what she could say that would be sincere, accurate, and remotely helpful.

"Emily?"

"I'm watching Rory's plane take off. So is Lorelai. I thought perhaps you'd want to know…" Again, Emily found herself unable to find the proper words. "She was excited, but sad. Rory, I mean. I'm sure you saw yourself. She mentioned something about having a very early breakfast with you."

"Yes, we did. Abominable timing, but I can't command my own body, it seems."

Emily cleared her throat. It was painful, to not butt in, fuss, as she had for so many years. "Well, according to Lorelai, a day or two in bed is purely precautionary."

"One little dizzy spell," grouched Richard. "Their own fault, deciding that if a low dose works, then a higher dose will work better, and it says right there on this obnoxious orange label, _may cause dizziness_."

Emily's face crumpled. Why did she ever wonder where Lorelai's rambles and asides came from? They'd been there, all along, in Richard, in herself. "I'm glad it isn't serious, then."

"The final court date is set. You heard?"

"Yes. I'll see you then, Richard."

"Of course. Good-bye, Emily."

It was odd, that anger could stop sustaining her exactly when she most needed energy to defy the pain and disappointment and irritations of life. Yet it did, and it was a stranger who asked her, "Ma'am? Do you need help?"

"No, no," she said quickly, flatly. "I'm waiting for my driver to bring the car around."

"Oh, um, okay. Have a nice day."

The stranger entered the terminal. Emily wondered why on earth she had lied. She had no driver.

A commercial jet drew her attention, perhaps because of instinct, or the faint sound of Lorelai's "I love you, Rory!" yelled from the parking lot. Shoulders sagging, Emily turned toward a hurrying valet, and asked for her car. By rote, she said, "Don't scratch it," and cringed from her own voice.

GG GG GG

Luke rang the doorbell.

He felt ridiculous.

He felt sad.

He felt panicky.

He felt sweaty.

Basically, he felt too damn much, and he hated it.

That unstoppable inner-Luke pointed out, _It's your own fault, pal._

He knew. That was why he hated feelings. These feelings. Any feelings.

The cheerful red door opened.

In a ratty t-shirt and shorts, hair up in a loose tail, Lorelai still plucked strings deep in his heart that he wished would just _break_ and be done. It happened with everyone else. Why not Lorelai?

Her voice, like his sister's, his daughter's, asked the same question in his memory: _Why not?_

He shoved a flat square box at her. "Boysenberry. Because." He longed to scratch his neck and wipe at the sweat trickling by his eyes. What idiot wore flannel in June? "Um. Rory. And stuff. Geez, this was easier in my head."

That inner Luke pointed out, unhelpfully, that he hadn't really rehearsed it until he got out of the truck.

"So. Um."

Lorelai continued to stare at him, frowning.

"Say something. You're freaking me out."

Behind her, the dog growled, then fled into the fireplace behind the decorative screen.

"He growled at me," said Luke, taken aback, saddened, to a degree he'd never have predicted.

"Long time, no see," said Lorelai. "Rory left last week, my parents' divorce is final next week, what's the occasion?"

At that, Luke barked, "What do you think? Fourth of friggin' July!"

"That's a couple of weeks away, and you have no reason to celebrate Father's Day with me."

Luke dropped the box holding the boysenberry pie. He'd never expected it to hurt _him_ on this date. June third had been a little weird, but with April and Anna and renovations, he'd been able to stay busy enough to ignore the calendar. After all, the wedding date hadn't been _that_ after a certain point, and so forth and so on.

 _I suck at lying to myself these days_ , his head told him. Helpfully, that time.

Voice thick, Luke croaked, "But I should."

Lorelai exhaled hard, the way someone did if struck by ice water. "Okay. Fair enough. Don't worry about Paul Anka. C'mon on in. Invited, even."

"Okay, fair enough," echoed Luke, and edged into the living room. It was tidy, other than the coffee table. That was a reassuringly familiar wreckage of pop culture magazines, a bowl of popcorn, and six wrappers from fruit-nut bars. "What's with the dog?"

"You smell wrong," said Lorelai casually.

Even for a dog as infamously neurotic as Paul Anka, that sounded extreme, in Luke's opinion. " _What_?"

"Okay, you usually smell like diner and sometimes cleaners, and usually coffee, but you're all…" Lorelai shrugged, gestured at him, then folded her arms in front of her again. "No offense, you smell like vanilla. I mean, I can smell it. And, y'know, vanilla…" She drew a breath, blushing hot pink to her hairline. "Vanilla makes me upset, and me upset can make him growl sometimes."

Wondering when vanilla turned into a problem, Luke naturally asked the sensible question. "Why does vanilla get you upset? It's just a flavor."

"You'd come by the house last year, after being at Anna's, and she's got that vanilla fetish, and you'd say something like bread delivery or whatever, and leave really quick, and I'd cry, so I guess he decided vanilla upsets me and he's showing solidarity."

The fact she babbled was wonderful.

 _What_ she babbled made his stomach turn.

"It was that bad?"

She shrugged, and started cleaning up wrappers. He glanced at the television, which was showing a movie he didn't recognize. Something involving someone reading from a notebook to a woman who obviously didn't care.

That hit too close to home.

"She can't remember, so he reads their story to her," said Lorelai to him, back turned, as if she had read his mind. "So he can relive their love with her even though she's not there anymore, not really."

Luke recoiled and slammed the remote control. The TV blinked off. "That's morbid!"

"Well, it's called _wallowing_ , not _happy dancing_ ," Lorelai snapped in return. "Look, I have to clean a pie off my welcome mat, and I hate this day, and this month, and you smelling like last year is _not_ helping."

Luke sat down, uninvited, on the couch, and removed a magazine offering advice on _Easy Meals for One_ from under a pillow. "I smell like last year?"

Her face was too blank, and her voice was frighteningly level. "Y'know. April's pool chlorine. Anna's store vanilla."

A sob held back for a year finally emerged, in a coughing noise. He stared at the floor. Even his smell had gone off-course. He had smelled like someone else. He had smelled like his kid's mother. What would he have felt, if he smelled, over and over, the stink of cologne worn by Rory's father? However innocent the circumstances?

"Oh my God," he said in horror, watching tears dribble onto his clenched hands.

He felt a light touch on his arm, and saw a box of tissues appear. "Do you want something to…"

"No," grated Luke, gulped, and scrubbed his eyes and nose clean with a fistful of tissues. He sucked in oxygen, barely, around the grief in his chest. "I should've been holding your hand, and crying with you, and asking you to help with April and Anna, but in my head, you were going to leave anyway, and you did."

"I didn't know I was allowed to stay."

He twisted his hands around tissues until they became a knotty mess. "Yeah. That."

"This last year. You, uh, you said a lot that made me think we could… And then you, uh…" Lorelai's voice cracked, steadied. Luke didn't dare look at her. He'd fall apart, and he was already falling apart. "Swim coach. Renovating another house with another woman. It's your life, not my business, and I have to apologize again. I… It…" Her voice broke and spiraled down into a whisper. "I wanted it with _you_. And you didn't. And it hurts, and it sucks. I'm nearly forty, God, I hate saying it, but I'm nearly forty, y'know? I can't kid myself."

Luke risked a glance at her. She looked delicate and yet determined. He missed that. Her ability to be both. With him, anyway.

"My biological clock isn't ticking anymore, it's wound down, and that's… It's… I just need to cry, y'know?"

Luke pushed his elbows down on his knees and shoved his forehead into his palms. "You were the exception," he rasped. "You. You were the exception. That's why. You understood. You saw. So I didn't let you stay. It meant too much. I kept you away, and you push and you try, and then I push and try, and I tell myself the right time will come, but there's never a _right_ time, for anything, ever! When the hell is anyone ready for kids or marriage or exes or in-laws?" He found he was on his feet, gesturing, pacing. "I say I can't jump, I'm not ready, when the hell is anyone? My parents didn't plan on Liz, she happened, they loved her! Hell, you get in over your head by jumping, and I _need_ that, and you need _me_ to keep you from jumping that way you do…"

"Head-first instead of feet-first?"

"That too," he agreed angrily, and shucked his flannel. The green t-shirt underneath bore sweat-stains. "And what adult wears flannel in summer? What the hell? Do I think a golf shirt's gonna kill me? Or one of those hen shirts."

"Henley," supplied Lorelai calmly.

"Whatever!" said Luke in a blind rage. "And now the dog hates me because I smell wrong. I _smell wrong_! So messed up that you can't stand _vanilla_! You love vanilla! It's in whipped cream! It's ice cream! And now you don't drink coffee, either! And you haven't been near Al's for a year!" He pointed in the general direction of her kitchen. "You. Salads!"

"New truck," said Lorelai quietly, "and you sold your dad's boat."

Luke tripped over his own rant. He stumbled to a verbal halt. "Uh. What. Yeah. How?"

"I still go to town meetings, Sookie tells me everything Jackson knows, which is everything, and I can see your truck is new from here. Pretty color. I mean, green, of course, but a different green."

"The old one was sucking oil and gasoline, total waste of money, and they don't even make some of those parts anymore. And not enough seats for April and her gear and her friends who need rides, I bought an extended cab! I hate those! Why the hell am I a taxi service?"

"You're a parent," said Lorelai blandly. "Old truck got sold?"

"Euthanized. I loved Dad. I loved that truck. After the lawyers and these renovations to keep Anna from contesting the custody agreement, but yeah, the truck… The boat… I don't need them to remember my dad." He pointed at her TV. "I don't need notebooks to remember I love you."

Her eyes filled with tears.

"Or how I screwed up. Or how _we_ screwed up. You tried. To get me to see. People can't just keep waiting. Taking time. Processing. _Alone_. What am I saying?"

"I think you're apologizing and explaining some more," offered Lorelai gently. "The way I was. Luke, this is _not_ a good day and tomorrow's the real Father's Day, I'm spending it with my dad, I _need_ today to wallow, and…"

Luke dropped to her couch, folded his arms, and snapped, "Well, I'm wallowing. With you. Like I should've. Crap!" He ran a hand over his thinning hair. "The more I talk, the worse it gets."

"Welcome to my world."

"Hate me tomorrow, if you want, but today, can we… Can I…" Luke stared up at her, hopeful, hurting. "We lost our should-have-been."

"I know," sniffled Lorelai. "I won't hate you. I can't. I screwed up so bad."

Exhaustion swamped Luke. "I know. You said. I said. We've all said. No more talking. Not right now." He put out his hand. "Wallow?"

Lorelai violently shook her head. "You're doing this when I'm vulnerable. That's not fair."

"None of this was fair."

She sat gently on the couch. "No, it wasn't. My mom told me I'm a train wreck in the middle of the airport when Rory was leaving."

"Anna thinks her mother needs her own kitchen, too."

"What does April think?"

"She's at science camp, she thinks it's great."

"I meant about the kitchen."

"Haven't told her. She's fighting with Anna enough as it is. I'm trying not to get in the middle, and it's impossible."

"Pretty much," agreed Lorelai. "One thing about my parents, when I was a kid, it was two against one, no questions asked which two and which one. And Rory gave me Rory eyes whenever Chris showed up."

"I'm getting April eyes. All she has to do is use those and say my name instead of _Dad_ , and I can't even breathe right."

"The joy of parenthood."

From his soul, Luke shared, "Our kid would've been great."

"Yeah," came Lorelai's husky reply.

The words scraped his throat as he spoke them. "I'm sorry. I should've been with you months ago, we should've never broken up, I should have asked you out when you wanted to learn to fish for that Alec or whatever it was."

"That was why I wanted you to teach me," sighed Lorelai forlornly, and folded her legs under herself. "Hint-hint, I'll learn to fish if you want. Too subtle, I guess."

Luke's jaw dropped. He thumped his own skull. "Actions. I'm always saying actions, and I…"

"No more rants. Okay? Can we… I dunno… Just sorta sit here?"

Stricken, Luke merely nodded. And he sat, and in the quiet grieving, he discovered yet again that Lorelai was the exception, and he wished he'd made her the rule instead.

GG GG GG

AN: Hartford's Bradly Airport does have valet parking. I've no idea what else they have.

If you recall, Richard was placed on a beta blocker many chapters ago. That class of medication can, in fact, cause dizziness. I suck at airports, but I'm very careful on medical matters.

Yes, the Ls keep sending mixed signals. What else is new?


	19. Chapter 19

Disclaimer: I disclaim. There. Done.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

The Horrible Day Among Horrible Days was coming to its end. Somehow, Lorelai moved to the back porch, and Luke followed. It was odd, she thought, how he followed and persisted when he chose. After a year, she could not grasp why he bothered. She felt great sympathy for Rachel, of a sudden. With such confusing actions and reactions from Luke, what woman knew where she stood? She'd thought she'd known, and been wrong each time.

"Is there anything left to say to each other?" asked Lorelai, as darkness began its slow fall. She watched her dog bound enthusiastically in chase of dust motes around the back yard. "We almost had something great. We blew it. We don't have anything but memories. Notes. Home invasions."

"A ramp?" asked Luke irrelevantly.

"Stairs. Dog. Duh." Lorelai shifted slightly on the wicker rocker. Luke had taken up position on the porch rail, scowling as he prodded it for weaknesses. "Back on point."

"The horoscope. I kept it so I could show it to you someday. Tell you I gave you coffee, now go away. For a sort of joke. I forgot I had it till I was cleaning things out after the divorce from Nicole, make sure no more alien socks."

"Oh," sighed Lorelai, and wondered why she didn't feel worse about that. "Well, it makes more sense than you pining around like I was your Ava Gardner. Why not just tell me that to start?"

"You started talking about pining," admitted Luke. "Didn't wanna ruin the moment."

Lorelai shivered, although the June night was balmy. That was something he had said too often, in her opinion. The wedding dress was a moment he couldn't ruin. The return of Rory was a moment he couldn't ruin. And so, instead of a few ruined moments, they suffered _this_.

In that spirit, she offered, "I didn't go to the twins' christening because I couldn't ruin her moment. Their moment. Whatever. Bad enough I trashed Lane's wedding reception, y'know?"

They watched Paul Anka run happily about, snuffling the warm night breezes.

"Was it bad? No, I mean, yeah, of course it was bad, but…" His fingers brushed hers. "You're okay? Physically?"

It was the one thing they hadn't discussed, and Lorelai flinched, clutching her cup of tepid green tea until her knuckles whitened. "It hurt. I felt fine, physically. Then I woke up in the middle of the night. I threw up. It felt wrong. The wrong kind of sick. When I tried to stand up, I…"

His hand crept near hers.

Lorelai pushed it away with a violent rush of words. "I screamed. I couldn't stand up. I couldn't stop shivering. I think I passed out or something, I don't remember the ambulance. I woke up in the hospital, Hartford Memorial, and I knew. I felt like I did after Rory was born. That kind of leftover soreness. But not like after Rory. It was… Empty. Like those Christmas ornaments you always rant about, the glass ones that are hollow inside. Because they break so easily."

She heard a faint, "Oh God," and continued, not to hurt him, or herself, but to simply be done. He kept trying to fix them, but he didn't seem to want to _be_ a _them_. This last bond could now be undone, and perhaps at last she'd feel as if she'd been and done _enough_.

"They had to do this thing, to make sure all the bits were out, and I was knocked out for it. To be safe. So nothing could, y'know, get worse." She swallowed bile at the memory. "We didn't tell Rory. Only my dad knows. I had a bad reaction to the anesthesia. I didn't wake up when I was supposed to. My breathing wasn't right, either. That's why I… That's the real reason… I mean, when I realized I was pregnant, yeah, but then, after that… That's why I stopped going to Al's and eating cheeseburgers. It wasn't how I ate, I know that. And sometimes people react to anesthesia. But eating smarter makes me feel…" She trailed off.

"In control?"

Lorelai nodded at Luke, not that he could see her very well. "At least I felt less scared. And it was grieving. Like I was feeding the baby even though it was gone." She choked back a sob. "They… I'd heard a heartbeat. I wanted you to be there so much, that first time, but I was making sure it was real, and then… They can't tell sex. They wanted me to give it a name. I didn't know what to do. I picked Stevie. Y'know. Stevie Wonder, Stevie Nicks. Goes with either."

She waited for judgment, banter, deflection. Whatever Luke threw at her, she knew she could survive it. She had so far.

"It was probably a girl," said Luke, his voice ragged. "Stephanie. Stevie for short."

How she ended up holding onto him, both crying incoherent and thick and messy, Lorelai didn't know. She did, however, dimly grasp that she needed this, and so did Luke. To heal, there had to be tears.

When they calmed, she whispered, "There's nothing left."

"There's us."

"There never was much of an us."

Paul Anka scrabbled up, throwing himself against her legs. She knelt, hugging the dog tight for protection and comfort alike.

Luke reached across the dog, to pull her into a loose embrace. Wearily, Lorelai allowed it. For a moment, she could lean on someone, and it was good. She had to remember it wouldn't last. That was the important part.

"No," said Luke, somewhat angrily, she thought, as she pulled back. "No. I'm not going anywhere. There's never a good time. A right time. There's just whatever time we have. I finally get that." When she said nothing, because she didn't want to assume she knew what he meant, Luke concluded, "I know we can't start over, but we can maybe… Maybe learn each other. Over. Again."

Lorelai bit her lip. Would this tell her why she'd lost him? Would knowing help?

After full dark had descended, the best she could give was a shaky, "We'll see."

GG GG GG

Richard adjusted his tie. A moment later, his daughter re-adjusted it. "Dapper," she decided with false cheer. "Ready?"

" _Morituri te salutant_."

Per usual, his daughter took him by surprise. "Speak for yourself, I'm not dying today. And who are we saluting, exactly?"

"Well, I can't recall the proper form for _We who are to divorce salute you_ ," huffed Richard. "Would it be _divortium_ or _repudiamus_?"

"I love you, Dad."

The unexpected word-bomb sent warm thrills through Richard. "Why, Lorelai," he said softly. "What on earth brought that on?"

"Only you," smiled Lorelai with glass-shell cheer, "would wonder which Latin word is best to make a joke." She tweaked his tie. It was new, a gift from her on Father's Day. He found it absurdly sweet that she had given him such a typical present, yet managed her own twist on it. The pattern was of white dots on green that, upon second look, were golf balls. Richard quite honestly loved it. There was something fun and subversive in making a polka-dot-seeming tie into a golf-themed tie.

"Also," his daughter continued, "you could use it. Moral support."

"Your mother…"

"C'mon, I may have my problems with both of you," scoffed Lorelai, and. "But we're working on them. Mom, not so much. Now, Rory sends her love."

Richard smiled mistily.

"And Sookie promises magic risotto Sunday."

Richard grinned in anticipation of a delicious Sunday meal.

"You sure you don't want me in there?"

He squeezed her hand impulsively. "I'm not sure, but I _am_ certain you shouldn't worsen your relationship with your mother. It's merely formalities. She signs, I sign, the judge signs, however it's done, and it's off to the club for a light lunch. Off you go to your physical."

The glass of his daughter's smile fell to shards. "Yeah. That. Okay. Let me know if…"

"And you too."

She nodded, flinching visibly when she heard her mother's voice echoing down the courthouse hallway. "…Is it really necessary to be taken through a labyrinth to some smelly little…"

"Your cue," said Richard dryly.

She fled out the nearest door labeled "Exit", and her heels clacked on the stairs.

Richard's own attorney appeared, from the same stairwell, without a drop of sweat on her face. "Mr. Gilmore."

"Miss Mather. Shall we?" He opened the door for her, and was unsurprised when Emily sailed through it without a word to him. Mr. Hutchinson, her attorney, lagged a step behind. He granted a terse nod to Richard.

The courtroom was not a grand venue. It smelled sad, thought Richard, like it wanted fresh air and a bit of sun. At the very least, new carpeting, to offset the heavy gleam of the woodwork.

Normally, Richard would have greeted the man behind the desk with a polite, "Donald, how are you?" Since the circumstances were what they were, he opted for a polite, "Judge Schuyler."

The judge didn't dawdle. "The attorneys assure me the parties have agreed to the separation of assets and division of property, but I have a question before we finalize this matter."

A chill ran through Richard.

"I am aware that divorce is a deeply personal event, made distressingly impersonal by the law. I am also aware that it is not the first time the couple in question has separated. I must ask, before I grant this petition in full." He looked down his nose at them. "Is reconciliation impossible, as defined both by the law, and by common sense?"

Mr. Hutchinson stood and said crisply, "Your Honor, my client finds herself irreparably wronged. There is no reconciliation possible."

Richard nodded, moist-eyed, and Miss Mather rose. "Your Honor, no reconciliation."

"Very well, then. Gilmore versus Gilmore, a most generous settlement to the second party…" The judge flipped to another page in the pile of documents. "Miss Mather, is your client certain he wishes to pay alimony in that amount?"

"My client foresees working part-time as a consultant in his field, Your Honor, and doesn't expect financial hardship as a result of his generosity."

Richard inwardly winced at the pomposity of it all. He knew Emily, that was all. She received half of their joint investments, half of the proceeds of sale of property in Martha's Vineyard, and the stately old mansion, but her perception would be of receiving _forty_ percent of everything to which she felt entitled. Alimony granted her the smug little smile of victory she now wore, as taking _sixty_ percent.

"All signatures in order," announced the judge. "Very well, the petition is granted, the paperwork will be available at the clerk's office within ten business days, I wish you well, next case."

The word that came to Richard was _anti-climactic_. No dramas, no tears, nothing but a tedious meeting, of which he had known many. As for the ten thousand a month to Emily in alimony, well, Richard was no fool. Nor was his attorney.

He smiled a little, wondering how long it would take Emily to realize she held the title, and therefore the _expenses_ , of the big Hartford property. One thing when he paid the property taxes, and quite another when she needed to do so. That was approximately ten thousand dollars a year she'd find did not appear by magic. As for neighborhood association fees, that was another six thousand. She also would have to pay for its insurance (hardly onerous, given he'd negotiated it). The auto insurance, of course, was its own problem. His antique cars meant he had quite a burden there, between storage and insurance alike, yet Emily would find that another annoyance when it came to her two beloved Mercedes-Benz sedans.

Yes, it was true he had leaned a great deal in this last year, about cleaners and cooks and such, and was grateful for Emily taking care of such things all their marriage. He had, however, needed to purchase a new home, while still paying the taxes on the old. His new home was less than a third the size of the Hartford property, and he'd discovered he quite preferred it. Emily, meanwhile, had enjoyed that property without paying fees and taxes. It was time, in Richard's opinion, for Emily to learn about a few things.

Among them, a property assessed at nearly a million dollars was a lovely thing on paper, but he foresaw trouble, and home devaluation. Richard knew insurance, and when insurers became investors in shady securities based on shaky mortgages, chaos _would_ ensue. Risk assessment expertise told him that. The only question was _when_. No genius, but no halfwit, Richard was already pulling into much safer investments, much stabler funds, and the house had been part of that equation. His was in a neighborhood of less repute, but historically less volatility. The majestic Gilmore mansion, by contrast, could drop to half its current assessed values. Not all the neighbors were as financially sound as Richard, and one foreclosure or under-market sale would affect the whole _street_.

The creep of economic hard times came slowly to the finest and wealthiest, but it did come. His much more modest home would lose value sooner than the Gilmore mansion, but also recover it more readily. People could always afford to buy _less_. The market for _more_? Oh, that was far trickier.

It was unkind, but Richard knew he had essentially made certain Emily would be struck harder by economic disarray. She would rely on a broker or such, far more than he did. How often she had said, "Richard, must you talk business?" Well, he knew business enough to realize that the currents were shifting, and it was time to adjust his sails to suit the seas. He preferred to do so well before storm clouds appeared. If Emily did not, then so be it.

Another thing he'd learned, this last year, was that while he loved Emily dearly, he was less and less able to _like_ her.

In the corridor, the attorneys and clients parted ways, leaving the exes momentarily alone together.

"Well, Richard," said Emily crisply, smoothing her hair unnecessarily. "I hope you're pleased."

"My dear," he sighed heavily, "if you think this pleases me, then you truly do not know me any better than I apparently know _you_."

With a polite nod, a rumbling, "Good day, Emily," Richard walked calmly away. It was not easy. It was, however, simple.

GG GG GG

AN: *Morituri te salutant: According to Suetonius, what gladiators said in the combat ring. Or not. "We who are about to die, salute you," is the usual English translation.

All information on approximate home values, taxes, and insurance is roughly valid for the Old Money types of Hartford, Connecticut, at that time in 2007. The economic downturn of 2008 hit their housing markets quite hard, and information on claims from the period is also accurate, per reports in Connecticut newspapers of the time. Connecticut remains less-than-recovered from the 2008 crisis.

As to why Richard ruminates as he does on such things.

In this chapter, we're entering the beginning of the financial end in 2007, and so Richard would in fact be reading the early warning signs of major meltdown. A conservative investor such as himself, with knowledge of what corporations were up to, would be quietly guarding himself and his assets (ahem).


	20. Chapter 20

Disclaimer: Yeah whatever hers not mine blah blah theirs not mine yada yada.

AN: Shout-out to PurryCat, whose suggestions and feedback are invaluable, and whose friendship is beyond price. Couldn't do it without her!

ANOTHER DOUBLE CHAPTER DAY! End of this chronologically dovetails with next.

CHAPTER TWENTY

Without marriage, or the excuse of it, Emily Gilmore found herself in a dreadful position.

She was _bored_.

Oh, thrice a week she had some sort of excuse or event in the evenings, and she had taken over several more positions of power in her various charity organizations, but this particular morning, Emily was _bored_.

It was not that she had become ostracized. It was simply Sunday.

Her friends had not abandoned her, as divorce no longer held quite the same stigma for a woman who won the house, the diamonds, the jewels, the alimony, and the moral victory. Her daughter had done something awful, Richard had sided with that horrid disgrace, and worse, had left Emily high and dry. It was shocking, and gossip-worthy, but… It had been over a year, Emily clearly came out the winner, and Richard barely showed his face.

Well, he did not often show it outside the golf club and the euphemistic "club" that really meant "place where men hang out to sneak cigars and read things their wives would not approve". Emily remembered clearly having an argument with Lorelai (what else did they have?) when teen Lorelai demanded to know why Richard's club denied membership to women.

The scene popped into memory, now that she was done pretending to garden by inspecting the flowers for weeds and pests.

" _It's not fair!" yelled teen Lorelai, arms folded just below her new-bloomed breasts, and her face red and white with hurt. Emily drank from her sherry, and snapped, "Why would we want to go in there, Lorelai? You have no sense, no sense whatsoever! I don't want men at my manicures, why should I intrude on their filth?" And, of course, Lorelai shouted, "It's not fair! You know how many deals get made there and women get left out!" To which a harried Emily retorted, "And you have no idea how many are made because women handle matters amongst themselves!"_

As she recalled, tapping a fingernail on her lower lip enough to show her pensive train of thought but not enough to mar the lipstick, Lorelai had thrown up her hands, snuck out a window, and gone gallivanting about in tears and t-shirts and annoying music as usual.

That inspired Emily to smile, and walk upstairs at a crisp pace. Her low-heeled shoes made no sound on the tasteful runner covering the stairs, or the hallway. She mentally noted the need for newer carpeting, and opened a door with two twists of a key only she owned.

The small room held many stored items, each in its properly labeled crate.

She looked at one, and nodded. It was not very large, but she made a point of telling the maid to help her at once.

After two hours of driving around, she finally found a place that was open, and also suited her temper and her purpose.

"I suppose it will take weeks to transfer this footage to more modern formatting," said Emily disdainfully. The _child_ behind the counter had _pimples_ , for pity's sake, and yet was entrusted with responsibility. It boggled the mind.

"If you had all this on eight-millimeter, yeah, we'd need a lot more time, but this is all VHS."

"Well, you aren't open on Sunday in order to _talk_. How soon can I have the first, oh…" Emily counted. "Four?"

"Slow day here, give me two hours, we've got great new software and…"

"I'll be back at noon precisely."

At noon precisely, Emily was digesting a light brunch from a suitable hotel restaurant, and standing with toe tapping. The youngster ambled at an inexcusably slow pace to the counter, and dropped a thin silver disc in front of her. "I kept the graphics the same, hope that's okay."

"Acceptable." Emily looked at the DVD, marveling at its sleekness, then scribbled a check to pay for the service. "Finish the rest, and notify me when they're ready, please."

Emily had long ago perfected turning the word _please_ into a threat. The young man took her card (newly printed for purposes of the DAR and similar), stapled it to an extreme number of flimsy papers. "Got it, ma'am. Shouldn't be more than a few days, maybe a week."

"As long as it is done _correctly_ ," said Emily, and set off to her destination. She knew precisely to whom the DVD would go, and why, and where, and when.

Vengeance was a petty word. Emily preferred to call it education.

She breezed through the lobby of the Dragonfly Inn, into the dining room, and there found Richard and Lorelai lingering over some sort of tea and wafer-looking dessert. There were no others in the room, freeing Emily to do what she most wanted.

She flung down the DVD, startling them both into gasps, and dropped cutlery, and spilled tea in Lorelai's case.

"There! See for yourself, what we gave you, what we did for you, and how you behaved! Then tell me, Lorelai, how any of this is possibly anyone's fault but your own! Ungrateful, immature, selfish from the start!" Emily hitched her purse strap up a little, and tossed her head. "Honestly, I'd think the hospital switched babies, if…"

"I wish they had," interrupted Lorelai, color returning to her face, and her eyes narrowing. She pushed back her chair, stood, and stared at Emily with a very Trix-like contempt. "But they didn't, and here we are, _Mother_. Here's a thought to consider. You take credit for everything good about _Rory_ , but you don't take credit for anything bad about _me_. How's that work?"

"Lorelai, enough," intervened Richard, rising slowly. "Emily, your rudeness is not appreciated."

"Oh for heaven's sake, Richard," snapped Emily, turning on him gladly, "there are no witnesses!"

"There are two," said Richard, with a deep-toned _harrumph_. "Myself, and Lorelai."

"I'll speak to my daughter as I see fit!"

"There is a saying, Emily, of which my mother was quite fond…"

"Pish," dismissed Emily, as she did all things Trix if possible.

"You can tell the parents by the child."

Cold struck Emily, from within, though she felt as if she had been soundly slapped.

"If Lorelai is a disaster, then she is one of our making, wouldn't you say?"

"Thanks!" spat Lorelai. "Thanks a lot, Dad!"

"Not now, Lorelai."

"Oh my God, if I had a dollar for every time one of you said _not now, Lorelai_ , I'd be richer than either of you!"

"I'm making a point!" bellowed Richard.

"So was I!" railed Emily.

Lorelai's head bent. The silence became painful. After several moments passed, her dark curls were tossed back, and she presented to Emily the brittle mask Emily knew well.

"Thank you for coming, Dad. What an unexpected displeasure, Mom. If you'll excuse me?"

She slapped the DVD into her purse and went out of the dining room through the kitchens.

Emily turned to lash out at Richard, but his expression stopped her mid-breath.

"You have many wonderful qualities, Emily, but a forgiving nature is not among them," he stated impersonally, then nodded politely. "Good day."

Emily stood, trembling, until her outrage cooled enough for her to walk out with the prim, precise grace of a ballerina. Richard did make a good point, she conceded reluctantly. She could not risk a public scene. The private ones were terrible enough.

GG GG GG

A shriek heralded the latest spat between Davey and Martha Belleville. From her comfortable chair, Sookie blew a referee's whistle. The kids promptly toddled over to their father, who gave Sookie a shamed look of apology. Luke wondered what the story was, as the two were usually a model of harmony.

"He lied to her," said Lorelai at his elbow.

Luke jumped, spilling lemonade across the table. "What? Lorelai? Hi. So. Um. Who?"

"Jackson. He promised he'd get a vasectomy, he didn't, he lied, and this isn't as easy as it was the first two times. Age," said Lorelai austerely, and gave him a hard, brittle smile as she refilled his lemonade cup from the urn. "There you go. Happy Fourth of July."

"So she's treating him like a dog?" grumbled Luke, watching as Sookie blew the whistle, and this time received a cold drink from a small cooler.

Her own plastic cup filled, Lorelai retorted, "You mean, because she's pregnant because he lied and she's had a bad scare and the doctors want her off her feet until, y'know, she gives birth sometime in September?"

Luke felt acid rise in his throat. It wasn't the lemonade. "Oh. Uh. Yeah. You put it like that…"

She walked away, to Sookie, and began entertaining the two kids by reading from a big colorful book about American history. Insight struck as Luke observed the way Sookie and Jackson treated each other. Jackson was tip-toe-cringing around Sookie, with the same hopeful puppy expression he'd seen on Lorelai after she learned about April. Sookie's glare was sheer outrage, and for rather better reason than he'd had to be angry at Lorelai, all things considered. Sookie looked ill, under her shady beach umbrella, and fragile for a woman of normally robust health. It was the same sort of frailty he'd ignored in Lorelai. The words _betrayed trust_ became, in Luke's head, _betrayed relationship_.

He heard Lorelai's desperate cry all over again: _This broke_ us.

Lorelai looked sweetly pretty, in a white sundress with flowers on it, and a broad-rimmed white straw hat. She glanced at him, frowning, and he blushed, like he had been caught peeping.

The loss and lost-ness in her expression were too much. He turned away.

 _Go over there, idiot. Hug her, tell her how you wanted to take that notebook from Susan and wash it clean of Susan's touch, tell her,_ demanded that inner Other-Luke he'd hoped was going to shut up.

 _I don't know how to re-learn her. Or us. Or me_ , argued Luke with… Well, with himself.

 _She needs to know you're thinking about a baby too. The one you don't have. That you miss your daughter and she misses hers. Man up!_

Glowering, Luke retreated to the diner. That Other-Luke jabbed, _Coward!_

 _Shut up shut up shut up! I can't do it! We already proved we can't be together! She didn't exactly come back to the diner, did she? No! "We'll see" means "screw you"!_

The problem with the last year's turmoil was that it had apparently given his inner Other-Luke some sort of magical strength against his habitual comebacks. _She has to come to the diner? Why? Oh, right, we went to her house, uninvited, a few times, so now she has to pay it back or it's not fair? That's Dad talking._

"Sh…" he began to explode.

The diner door opened, the bells tinkling.

He swallowed the rest of the profanity and mangled "Hello" into "Ho?"

"Thank you," snapped Lorelai, mouth thinning at the insulting syllable.

"Sorry, I mean, hello," stammered Luke. "Uh. Tea? Coffee? Milk?"

"Miss Patty sent me to ask for sugar. I mean white granulated sugar, not _that_ sugar," specified Lorelai in haste, cheeks pink. "The lemonade is awful."

"Oh. Yeah. Take a dispenser, that oughta do it."

"Okay, thank you."

A few minutes later, she returned, with the emptied dispenser. He finally named how he recognized her presence without seeing her. Lorelai somehow had _swish_. He had no idea what that even was, really, but it fit.

"More sugar?" he asked dully, and pretended the sparkling clean counter really needed to be scrubbed. He shoved the used dispenser out of sight, not caring it landed in the bin of spare napkins.

"Miss Patty again," replied Lorelai, arms tight around herself. "Apparently, I'm supposed to come forgive you because of how miserable you've been this last year."

Rag in hand, Luke found no better response than, "Oh."

"Of course, you forgiving me is out of the question," Lorelai went on, her bland tone at odds with her rigid posture. "Despite how miserable _I've_ been. Go Team Luke!" She pumped a fist with a sardonic twist of her mouth. "Like I'm the one who can't forgive. Like I should forget. Like, poof, we're all in again. Only you never were."

"Lorelai," he started, while his inner voice yelled many things that he didn't permit himself to actually _say_.

"You remember, when you'd tell me, how they're my parents, they love me, I love them, it's for Rory's sake, just hang in there, all that?"

"Uh…"

Lorelai's arms flew wide. "I know you never used those exact words, oh my _God_ , Luke! Quibbling? Really?"

He shrank, and rubbed at his neck, wishing he hadn't. The disinfectant cleaner from the rag stung his skin.

"And you remember how I'd say you had no idea? No idea at all what they were like, _after_ you _met_ them and everything?"

Even inner-Luke stayed silent.

Lorelai dug in her purse, and threw a DVD at him. He caught it by reflex.

"That was in my car, don't ask why," said Lorelai with tears in her eyes. " _That_ is what I meant. You want to know why I'm not jumping back into your life again? Watch the home movie edition of Lorelai Gilmore, Disaster On Feet!"

"I…" he began, but she'd already swirled out of the diner, returning to the picnic in the town square, and Sookie, and Sookie's kids, and Lane's twins, and all the babies who _were not theirs_.

He shut the blinds and locked the door, turned the sign to "Closed", and went upstairs.

Reluctant to disturb his daughter at science camp, where they were learning how to make fireworks (and to give him gray hairs), Luke dug out the user's manual for the DVD player that April had gotten him for Father's Day. "Join the century, Dad," she'd told him, with a roll of eyes worthy of a Gilmore.

An hour of cursing and electronic frustration later, he slid in the DVD given him by Lorelai.

Old home movie grainy footage came into painfully clear focus.

It was a party, and the narration was Richard's rolling, grand baritone. "Happy birthday to our Lorelai Victoria! How does it feel to be five years old?"

Luke's first reaction was a gasp. _That_ was Lorelai? White shoes, white lacy sock things, fluffy white dress, white ribbons tying up her hair in a very formal-seeming manner. Tiny diamonds sparkled in her ears. Only when she smiled at the camera did Luke recognize her. "Daddy! Look! I got my ears pierced! They glitter!"

"Indeed they do," rumbled Richard, and Luke noted the slight irritation, the too-patient tone, of a man who would prefer to have a good nap. "What do you think of your cake?"

"I can't wait!" squealed little tiny adorable Lorelai-in-doll-clothes. "Is it chocolate? Is it?"

"Of course not!" came a brusque answer from a slimmer, ever-familiar Emily. "You'd stain your dress."

No expert on kids, Luke was pretty sure that stains and cake and birthdays were the same thing. Any birthday party he'd seen, including Rory's, involved at least one spill and lots of crumbs and frosting spatters. He didn't serve cake at the diner, but he'd seen what teens could do to a cake at April's fourteenth birthday party, and that was _teens_. This was tiny Lorelai. Little tiny other-doll-girls. Shouldn't someone be… Playing? Goofing around? Making chaos?

He frowned, listening as Emily scolded Lorelai for abandoning her _friends_ , while Lorelai said they weren't friends, they were kids who belonged to Mommy's friends, and that wasn't the same. Emily's voice was quiet, but venomous, and drew him out of his reverie.

"You will sit there, you will sit quietly, and you will play with those children, Lorelai!"

"But you said we can't play, we'll get dirty."

"You can play some card game or other."

Luke's face underwent an indescribable series of contortions before he settled on expressing disbelief. What card games did kids that age even _know_?

"Can I pet the pony?" begged Lorelai.

"Go sit down, the pony isn't for petting."

"Then why did he come to the party? Can I ride him?"

"Later," said Emily.

After a series of gifts that included nothing Luke remembered Liz getting at that age, the footage moved outside. Emily was dismissing the pony and its handler due to a pile of pony poop on her lawn.

Lorelai's eyes were full of tears, her little fingers grabbing at Emily. "Mommy? Can I please pet him good-bye? Please?"

"Don't wrinkle my dress, Lorelai, and don't be ridiculous. He's a bad, smelly, horrible beast."

The camera had been surrendered, probably to some professional, and so Luke saw Lorelai turn pleading eyes to her father, a slimmer, exhausted Richard. "Daddy?" she asked. "Daddy, can I say good-bye to the pony?"

"Not now, Lorelai, listen to your mother!" said Richard, flushed from what Luke figured was his sixth martini.

There were kids at the party. Small miniatures of their parents, minus alcoholic drinks, listening to the music the adults liked, and nibbling slivers of cake with more decorum than the adults in most cases. There was no ice cream. There was tiny Lorelai, robotically thanking adults for coming and for giving her presents, already wearing the smile he knew too well. The _wrong_ smile.

An elegant graphic next read _Lorelai Victoria Gilmore Christmas in London 1978._

He punched the remote control to make it _stop_.

She had told him about it. Never in detail, of course, and he'd respected that. It was too painful for her. Or, he admitted ruefully, he'd dismissed it as a case of poor-little-rich-kid blues. Everything in the world, no pennies pinched, poor little girl had it all handed to her, and came slumming to pretend she'd worked her way up.

All of him shook in denial of what he'd seen in that video. Not one hug, not one kiss, not one laugh, not one scoop of ice cream, at a little kid's birthday party?

Luke exhaled hard, breathed in carefully. His head spun. He remembered vaguely something about his tenth birthday being celebrated. A new ball glove, nosebleed seats to a Bosox game, his mom's spice cake with the magically fluffy frosting nobody could replicate, root beer floats, a scratch game of ball in the park with the parents, the sister, a few pals, even Uncle Louie on the sidelines mocking everyone. They had four to a side, so it was more like an elaborate game of "Catch", but the _thwack_ of the ball in his new glove still haunted his dreams as one of the sweetest sounds of his young life.

He also didn't recall if his mother cared about stained clothing, but she probably hadn't, since he did remember his dad cheering her to "Slide! Slide!" into an imaginary base in their back yard.

Sure, he'd wrecked his bicycle and all that, lots of scolding, that same summer. Still had a small scar on one elbow from contact with pavement. Yet his mother's first reaction when he came home had been to hug him, blood and dirt included.

He discovered his face felt hot and wet. He touched his stubble. It was collecting tears.

Drunk adults at a party for little kids, and then, ten years later, those adults were yelling at those same kids for getting drunk. He knew that much from hints and bits and pieces about Lorelai's life. Yet what did the kids see was a party?

He went to the window. He could just glimpse Lorelai, reading stories to Davey, while little Martha dozed. Jackson and Sookie seemed to be having an intense discussion.

He dug around in a closet, and found a pair of photo albums. There were very few pictures taken after their mother died, but there he and Liz were, from first teeth onward. Old-fashioned little black-and-white snapshots, then color photos. He laughed to himself at some, at the birthday and Christmas and championship and award moments captured on film. Streamers. Cake crumbs. Piles of torn wrapping paper. A few random photos. His mom always the one behind the camera, his dad giving the camera a surly smile of "Since you insist..."A few sparse photos of Ellie Danes, snuck by Liz and about as artistic as any photo by a kid would be, just as their mother was folding laundry or something mundane, because at no other time did the woman seem to sit still. Nor, admitted Luke, had he and Liz left her much time when young. April exhausted him as a teen. Two kids, pre-adolescent, needing food and care and clean clothes wore him out in _theory_. Yet she'd made time to take those photos and wrap those presents and help him remember how good it was before it was bad.

In all of the pictures, there was little regard for how the photo would look on the wall. Nothing like that birthday party footage. It was nothing like the photos displayed by Emily Gilmore in her Hartford mansion.

Mustering up his courage, he decided to watch a London Christmas with the Gilmores. It was hot July, but he shivered.

GG GG GG

AN: This is a rather messy fic, I freely admit, as the currents of emotional reactions ebb and flow, push and pull. Each one has a lot to sort out, and it's… Well, it's messy. Old bad emotional habits die harder than nicotine addiction.


	21. Chapter 21

Disclaimer: If it's not mine after all these chapters, then it never was and never will be.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

The tiny muffled yelp drew Lorelai's attention from the never-changing parade of Stars Hollow's residents at the big holiday picnic. She turned quickly, putting a hand out. "You okay, Sook?"

"No," said Sookie, mouth in an uncharacteristically thin, angry line. She rubbed her distended abdomen. "Thank you. For helping with the kids. You're a good Auntie Lorelai."

"It's easy," said Lorelai, swallowing hard. Sookie needed her, not her hysterics over the past. "You make cute kids. So… What's going on with you and Jackson?"

"He was going to see the doctor. For the check-up." She tried to gesture suggestively, failed, but Lorelai understood her intent. "Make sure the vasectomy worked. He said."

"Oh no," whispered Lorelai. "Sweetie, tell me he didn't…"

"He did. He didn't go. Dignity. Cups. Samples. I just… First he lied about getting one, then this, and when I think we're finally Bogie and Bacall again, it's all back to Brad and Jennifer, only without Angelina." She squeezed Lorelai's hand, voice shaking. "I can't cook. I can't even supervise. I need to be at the inn, _our_ inn. I need to not be wondering if I'm headed for single motherhood, oh my God, I'm sorry, I didn't mean…"

"I know what you meant," soothed Lorelai, wishing she was at the inn, listening to Michel's complaints. "Look, the inn's okay, mostly, right? You'll be back for winter, right?"

Sookie nodded, but didn't seem terribly optimistic. "I sent him home with the kids, I just want to be… Not alone, but not in the house with him, or them, not right now. For a few more hours. Just… Sit here. Make fun of Taylor's star-spangled hat. Feel fresh air. Ask you what's the deal with Luke."

Lorelai snorted, waving at a wholly imaginary gnat in front of her face. "Y'know that home video stuff Mom nuked me with? I gave him a video to watch. He said something about re-learning each other, but I don't know if he ever _really_ learned me, Sook. How do you meet my parents, my mother, and think I exaggerated how…"

"Lorelai!"

Sookie's sharpness cut deep, reprimanding, scathing, and Lorelai was transported to ten thousand or so other times in her life when her name alone was a rebuke.

"Where's your car? No, not your car, get… Lorelai, call…"

Sookie's eyes held terror. Lorelai leapt to her feet. "Sookie?"

"Pain. Belly. Baby. Bad. Feels like labor. Real kind. Car!" Sookie panted in short bursts, face paling. "Please. Don't leave! Car! No, stay. Oh _God_!"

"Ambulance," Lorelai insisted, panic rising in a white-gray tide. She fumbled at her phone, dialed, and after begging emergency services to hurry, she held Sookie's hands. She knew incredible gratitude when Miss Patty's voice boomed out and cleared the park. "Move it!" the older woman kept repeating. "Move it! My place! Pick it up, carry it over, _out of the way now_!"

"She should've been a general, we'd never lose a war," said Lorelai, hoping to distract Sookie the least bit, and failing as she expected. "Sweetie, let go my hand. I have to call Jackson and…"

Sookie utter a thin low cry. "It feels pushy!"

Frantic, Lorelai ordered, "Don't! Don't! No pushy! None!"

Sirens came into earshot, over Taylor's megaphoned voice trying to make people do things that were already being done. She began to tremble, teeth chattering, memory filling her with a different time of pain and ambulances. She discovered she was whispering, "Please, please, please," in time to her rapid heartbeat, and that she couldn't see through her tears. " _Please_!"

Somehow, Sookie was whisked into an ambulance, screaming, "Lorelai! _Jackson_!"

"Sorry, we need the room," said the paramedic, and pushed Lorelai gently from the rear ambulance doors.

Her knees gave way as the ambulance departed.

"What is it, what happened, I heard the siren!"

There was a cleanser-scented cotton shirt against her face, and arms holding her up. She gasped out, "Luke. Sookie. Premature. Baby. I can't find my car. I can't find my car!"

Her purse disappeared. When cold air hit her face, she didn't understand, jumped with a stifled yell. She was sitting in her car, air conditioning blasting at her, with no recollection of getting there. "You're driving my car!"

"It was ten feet away," said Luke grimly. "We're nearly at the hospital, I'll…"

"Oh God, I have to call Jackson!"

She was able to tell Jackson what she knew, which was too little, before Luke stopped the Forester outside the emergency room entrance. "I'll, uh, park for you and…"

"I was calling for you," Lorelai told him bluntly. "My dad. Told me. I asked for you. Then I.. Then it… And then… Rory told you before I even got out of the hospital."

"I thought she'd kill me," whispered Luke roughly. "Go sit with Sookie."

Sorrow ran through Lorelai in a fresh wave of dull pain. "Oh. Right. Okay. Um. Just, uh, take the car back to Stars Hollow, and I'll pick up the keys or something? I dunno."

She ran, not only for Sookie's sake, but her own. Her car did not matter. Lost chances did.

When she bullied her way past the nurses, by simply ignoring them, she was met by Sookie on a gurney, heading for an elevator. She grabbed her best friend's hand, trotting alongside. "Sookie? I'm here. I called Jackson. Babette's got the kids, he's on his way. What's going on?"

The last question was for a burly man in no way resembling any dreamy doctor on _Gray's Anatomy_. His eyes, however, were focused, and compassionate. "C-section. It's our best chance."

Lorelai heard hysteria spiral through her pleading, "Sookie'll be okay? I won't let go till you tell me she'll be okay!"

The doctor nodded once. Then his eyes went to Sookie's abdomen. He said gently, "Sixth floor, OB-GYN, they'll direct you to waiting."

"Hang in there, Sookie!" she called desperately. "I…"

The elevator doors closed.

She needed someone. Rory was off doing adult career post-Yale things. Michel had to be available at the inn. Finally, she gave up and wandered to a cell-phone-friendly area outside, to stare at her phone. Her father had his own health issues. Her mother was out of the question. Who else did Lorelai truly have?

Purse clutched to her chest, she said softly, "I can't do this. I can't be here, this, again."

The best hospital in Connecticut for obstetrics and pediatrics, she remembered her father telling her over a year ago. She would have been far more comforted if Connecticut was a larger state.

A hand on her elbow sent her into the air, squeaking in fear, ready to lash out with her fingernails in self-defense.

"Hey," said Luke. "Yeah. I hate hospitals. But I know you won't go home till you know it's okay, and nobody should sit alone in a hospital waiting room. It's why I hate them. That and the smell."

Lorelai blinked, coming out of herself slowly. "Wait. You mean… When your dad… Liz? Rachel? Anna? Uncle Louie?"

"Drunk, gone, hadn't met her yet, only came once."

Horror overtook her. "You never said. Oh my God, Luke, you were so alone, you must've been so _lonely_!"

For some reason, he looked as if she'd kicked him. "Yeah. I was. C'mon. If you can walk into this after last year… I can sit around all night feeling useless."

She frowned a little, then touched his arm shyly. "Thank you. It's… Brave."

"I'm not the one screaming," was Luke's cryptic response, and she led him into the nightmare.

GG GG GG

Richard Gilmore raised a hand as Miss Cartman entered the dining room.

Her eyes traveled from his hand to his daughter's head, pillowed on his daughter's arm, perilously near a plate of now-cold trout and multi-rice pilaf. The garden salad had been eaten, and one bite taken of the pilaf, before Lorelai slid down like a drunk at closing time.

At his second gesture, Miss Cartman tiptoed into his kitchen. Richard followed.

"Is she…" whispered Miss Cartman. She insisted he call her Janice, but he refused, on principle. He wasn't certain _what_ principle.

"Exhausted," murmured Richard. "I think we'll be sharing dessert on the patio, if you've time."

She hesitated, clearly torn between a welcome break, and duty.

"Cherry-lime sorbet is good," she conceded, and took the two little dishes and spoons in hand. He opened the kitchen door and they walked to the patio, where both sat at a small mosaic-topped table.

Miss Cartman sighed gustily as she stretched her legs. "Oh, my feet," she admitted wryly. "I hope you found the supper…"

"It was delicious. My daughter would have agreed, if she hadn't fallen asleep. The vegetables were quite interesting."

"Oh dear," said Miss Cartman, lifting her spoon. "Mr. Gilmore, you're not a fussy man. If you say _interesting_ , I have more to fear than if it's, say, Mrs. Cantwell or the Dinwiddies."

"Oh, no no no," Richard hastened to reassure her. He'd come to quite admire her matter-of-fact approach. It was refreshing, after decades of nameless, frightened maids. "I simply didn't recognize them."

Her smile broke out, was quickly hidden. "Zucchini roasted with hot pepper, fresh thyme, and dressed with caramelized onions."

"Oh. That was zucchini? Strange, I never enjoyed it before." He took a fourth spoonful of sorbet. He closed his eyes. "Oh, this reminds me of a decadent soft drink from… Well, long ago. How on earth do you keep it sweet without violating my tyrannical doctor's orders?"

"Normally, Mr. Gilmore, I say it's a trade secret, but really, if you combine flavors properly, you don't miss sugar. There are substitutes, but I don't like to use them. People can have reactions, and so forth."

"Still, you must have some trick to this," insisted Richard.

"I use key limes. The zest is more intense, and the juice is more nuanced, I think, than other limes. I'm glad you like it so well."

They finished their sorbet, and it was time for Miss Cartman to leave. She had only arrived this day because he had asked, specifically, for her to manage this supper with his daughter. He found he was reluctant to see Miss Cartman depart.

"I am worried about her," he announced, staring at the trickle of water in the stream, and the first hint of lightning bugs dancing in the hedges he trimmed himself. "Her business partner, and chef at their inn, was hospitalized over a week ago. A premature birth, I don't pretend to grasp the details. She's short-staffed, over-extended, worried for her friend's newborn, apparently the poor thing was only three pounds and needs to stay in the hospital for over a month at least. The expense of that, the loss of a chef for her inn, stress…" Richard trailed off. His eyes tracked a blinking firefly. "I love my daughter, Miss Cartman, but I do not know how to help her, other than to let her fall asleep at supper."

"Am I hearing this for a particular reason, sir?"

Grinning, Richard admitted, "Actually, I intended nothing by saying that, other than saying it aloud to someone who won't grumble and ahem-ahem and tell me I sound like a grandmother."

"Does her inn have a chef for now?"

"Until her partner is well enough, the assistant chef is trying to fill in."

"Which inn, may I ask?"

Startled, Richard wondered how he'd never mentioned it. "The Dragonfly Inn, it's in…"

" _Oh my God!_ " squealed Miss Cartman, as if fifteen and not fifty. "They have a wonderful chef, and I _love_ the inn, my niece had her wedding there last year, it was _magical_ , I _thought_ your daughter looked familiar, but she was this _blur_ , she even managed to convince my niece that not having lilies was a good thing when the florist messed up the order!"

Eyebrows stuck in an upraised position, Richard commented slowly, "I do believe that is the strangest but best compliment my daughter's inn has ever received."

"When she wakes up, tell her to call me," said Miss Cartman with a broad smile. "We can send each other business. I'm sure her inn can't cater every event itself."

"Well, no, it can't."

"And I can recommend venues…"

Seeing that she was lost in some deep daydream, Richard quietly nodded a farewell, and chuckled a little. Emily would have disdained speaking to the help in a personal way. Yet in so doing, he might have helped Lorelai. His daughter needed it, although she wasn't about to confess the fact. Not that her inn was in trouble, but hearing an enthusiastic review from Miss Cartman would help her morale, at the very least.

He eventually slipped inside, and put a blanket around Lorelai where she sprawled on the table, snoring softly. He managed to remove the plate without disturbing her, and turned out the lights. "Good night," he whispered. "Sleep tight."

There were, of course, a thousand lectures and comments to make that were critical, observant, distant, and analytical. Not least of which was the inappropriateness of dozing off mid-meal and staying that way. Yet Richard had no heart for any of it. He could discuss business with Lorelai tomorrow. For the night, he had to be her father, and nothing else.

GG GG GG

AN: If I mention food, it exists. So yes, you can find cherry-lime sorbet, but not in stores. As far as I know, anyway. Or I'd eat a lot more of it.

Sookie was ordered to bed rest with Martha (S5), so plausibility of problematic pregnancy exists.

Oh, and clothing and such exists, too.


	22. Chapter 22

Disclaimer: I proclaim, exclaim and declaim that I have no claim to this stuff beyond my imaginings. Thus my disclaimer.

AN: Long chapter ahead!

CHAPTER TWENTY TWO

"A Japanese deck," mused Emily Gilmore. Her preference for Chanel-inspired suits, and the classic lines of knits, had not changed despite her general sense of liberty. She had tweaked her wardrobe, true, with a few forays into her accessories. For example, the necklace she wore was Cartier (of course), but had a lovely pearl suspended from a circle-shaped pendant of diamonds, rather than being a simple chain. She now owned a pair of low-heeled pumps with leopard print on them, though she currently wore gray low-heeled pumps with a square heel and faint silver shimmer, as appropriate with her charcoal tweed skirt and classic pink blouse. It was part of her independence, she assured herself, much as the word grated on her. Decades of devotion to Richard, to his business, to his comfort, and now she was left with what?

House, money, reputation, and only so many committees to chair at a time, lest she make enemies amongst her peers. In a word, courtesy the French: _ennui_.

"Describe," she ordered the designer, tapping her foot on the flagstone patio.

"Here, the upper level of the deck, stained this lovely dark color," enthused the landscape designer, whipping his binder up to show her the wood stain in question. "Three steps down, to this lower deck, which will encircle the koi pond…"

"Oh, that is lovely," admitted Emily, peering over at the photographs of an example. "It won't hinder maintenance or so forth?"

"Not at all, and around it, instead of plantings, a thick bed of white sand, a Zen garden if you like."

"Zen," said Emily, to buy time to imagine fine white sand overtaking where roses and coreopsis grew. "I would so hate to lose generations of landscaping. I believe some of those roses were planted by…"

Her words drifted away, as her thoughts took her to the first years in the mansion.

She could hear Trix, disdainful as ever. _Of course, you will tear away my roses, which were planted by Richard's grandmother._

She remembered so clearly denying she had any such intentions, and tending those roses loyally, faithfully, because they were part of the Gilmore legacy.

"And of course," said the designer tentatively, "we will integrate the path to the pool house into the design, by laying wooden…"

Emily nodded, forehead in a tight scowl. "Will it require removing the flagstones?"

"No, we can simply…"

Emily could not decide if she felt deep sorrow or rage as she bit out, "Good. I like that idea. As for the roses, what would replace them?"

"We have several varieties of decorative grass, which also sound pleasant in the wind, such as this plumed…"

"Yes, yes, narrow it down to six, I'll choose three," snapped Emily, winking back tears she pretended were from the glare of the sun off the koi pond. "I think that white sand would be far too difficult to maintain, the help here is dreadful, but perhaps some plant boxes that match the stain of the deck and walkway, for continuity, to the pool house?"

"That is always…"

"I'd like three options, none include a beach. If I want a beach, I'll move to one. Certainly you can conceive of more than _one_ idea for this Japanese deck of yours, and integrate it without making the yard look like a cat's lavatory."

The man blushed, muttered, "Of course, I can give you ten options."

"Three suffice, dark stain is definite, the planter boxes are essential, and the roses…" She swallowed hard, a hand drifting to touch her new necklace, her gift of freedom to herself. It felt very small. "The roses can go. Dreadful old things. I think irises and lilies in the planter boxes would be quite lovely, particularly against these fluffy grasses of yours."

The man scribbled frantically. "All right. I'll contact you in a week with three complete design options, and we can have the job done by Thanksgiving."

"Excellent," said Emily thinly. "Now, do excuse me, I have other appointments."

She saw him out. She went to the shed in the garden, donned gloves, and took up some snips. One whippy stem at a time, she cut back the rose bushes, crying silently, but with her jaw set and her mouth clamped tightly shut by power of will alone.

GG GG GG

Luke set aside the teal-and-silver notebook. Its tattered cover spoke to many re-readings.

He dialed a number, wondering why people said _dial_ when they were _tapping_.

A sleepy voice muttered, "Rory? You know Mommy's not on journalism time. Go to press, sweets, we'll talk when I'm conscious."

Luke glanced at his watch. It was four-forty-five in the morning, well before what Lorelai nicknamed _civilized_ time.

"Uh, I'm not Rory," he admitted gruffly.

With that, Lorelai's voice shot awake in a yip. He imagined her in her summer sleep attire (a very old, thin t-shirt and a set of men's silk boxers in a leopard print that he'd refused to wear). He thought he could even _smell_ that sweet-musky-sweaty odor of her. It startled him into saying further, "Everything's okay except it's not. I was up early for the stupid bread guy, like he can't just leave the damn bread in the alley till five-thirty so I can at least get a cup of tea in me, and I sound friggin' British like that stupid movie where the guy said it was only a flesh wound."

"Luke? I don't think everything is okay," answered Lorelai. He closed his eyes, and saw her shoving at her hair, and scooting around to make sure Paul Anka was undisturbed on the bed. "You just rambled. At way-too-early AM. And you know you worry about thieves and raccoons and the nonexistent alley cats."

"Hey, I swear I saw a cat once!"

"Luke, Taylor _poisons_ cats, you know that. Also fluffy bunnies and annoying children, probably. Coop issued a warning to him about animal cruelty, remember? You can't kill animals because they poop inconveniently for the tourists."

"Your mother was a bitch," snapped Luke. "Who the hell takes away a pony because it fertilized the damn lawn? It's a horse. They crap everywhere, like dogs, only bigger. Cats cover up. I think."

There was a telling silence. It told him Lorelai thought he'd lost his mind.

"Um. Luke? Are you drunk? Do I need to call someone for you?"

"I did call someone for me!" yelled Luke at his cell phone, holding it at arm's length. "I called you!"

There was a very distinctive noise known as the _dial tone_.

He said something he'd never say around April, or even Kirk, and stormed through a ninety-second shower. He slapped on a shirt and jeans and a ball cap. It was new, from April, and read _Nerds love pi_. The hat also displayed a picture of an apple pie. April had a t-shirt that boasted the same, and had informed him he was serving free pie, every year on March 14, for the remainder of his life, or else. He grouched this to the delivery guy.

The bread guy, who was currently named Ken (like the doll that lacked dirty parts, his inner Luke reminded, in a Lorelai-type way), said dryly, "Dude. You write it out American style, and March 14 is three-one-four. The first digits of pi. You better serve free pie on that date, and especially in eight years."

"Why?" yawned Luke irritably.

"Value of pi, dude." Ken was around Zach's age, and unfortunately too competent for Luke to dislike, despite the constant _dude_ s _._ "Everyone knows Pi Day is gonna be huge in 2015. Three-point-one-four-one-five. Well, you could round it up four-one-six, but y'know, dude, don't mess with pi. It's _the_ constant. Chemistry, physics, math, it's the _one_ thing, dude. The one thing that is _always_ what it is. Irrational number. Transcendent properties. But constant. It's beautiful, dude. Three-one-four-one-five-niner."

Mind alight with dazzles like sun, Luke gaped.

"Dude, you got a girl," observed Ken, and ambled off to his truck.

Lorelai, wearing jeans and a t-shirt with a picture of the Stars Hollow gazebo on its front, hurried along the alley. "Okay, that's why you didn't answer the knock out front."

Luke took her by her hands and said, "You're my pi."

His inner Other-Luke groaned. _What happened to clear communication?!_

"You mean the number thingy that means cheap pie every March?"

Luke giggled. It was not a sane sound, but then, it was not a sane moment. "You're my _pi_ ," he chortled helplessly. "That's what I can't say. I blew up at you for Rachel's jacket thing because you couldn't be like Rachel, I wouldn't let you, but I read your notebook like it's that stupid movie, I rented it, that was pointless, but you're _pi_."

She did not flinch. She did lean forward and sniff. "You smell sober."

He hugged her tight, heart dancing. "You thought I was worth more than five-buck flannel. You wanted me happy when it hurt you. You get why I wanna weld Taylor's doors shut. You show up even when you hate me, if I need you," he ranted happily. "You're the pi of my life. That's why it won't work without you. That's why I wanted to burn that notebook when someone else read it."

"Who. Read. My. Notebook?" whimpered Lorelai by his ear. "Luke? Air!"

He loosened his hold and she broke free, wheezing, a hand to her side. "Ribs," she squeaked.

"Uh, the swim lady. Suzy or whatever. She, uh, read it and, uh, I dumped her, but the thing is, she wasn't allowed to have it. Not why you weren't allowed to have Rachel's stuff. It's because you're pi, and she's just some random number, but you're the _constant_."

He beamed at her, delighted to have spoken his truth.

Lorelai looked quite kind, and composed, all things considered. "April had fun explaining science camp, I see."

"You know about pi?" he asked hopefully.

"Rory got extra credit in fifth grade for reciting pi's first ten digits," said Lorelai calmly, though she stayed out of reach. "I found this kid's book about it. Kinda cool, y'know? Like, if you go through every single thing in the universe, pi always shows up, and it rhymes with _pie_ , which I love, so, y'know." She tapped her temple. "It stuck. Three-one-four-one-five-nine-two-six-five-three, and pal, come 2015, you better believe I'm geeking out and celebrating Pi Day _extra_."

"I love you," said Luke with bone-deep relief at the admission. "Did you know pi has stuff called irrationality and transcendence, and that fits you perfectly?"

She blushed. She frowned. Finally, she said, "Thank you. I'm pretty sure that's an amazing compliment."

"You're welcome," he replied, and motioned her into the back of the diner. "C'mon, I'll make some tea. I can open late, Kirk will survive. I was reading your notebook again, I read a little every day, trying to get my head and your head on the same page. Wow, I didn't mean that as a pun."

"Are you running a fever?" asked Lorelai in concern, and touched the back of her hand to his forehead. The gesture was so simple, so classic, so utterly maternal and caring, that Luke grinned. He began making tea.

"No fever. Just. You wrote that you didn't think I _like_ you very much. And you're wrong. I love you, and I love a lot about you, but it's because of what I _like_. You don't quit. You don't stop smiling. You come when people need help or just ask you to, even if it's your mother or me or friggin' Taylor. I like how you care when other people would walk away. I like how you kick me out of my rut and make me think about things. I like how you listen. I like how you make life fun when you talk, even when it's annoying as hell. I like that you adopt the dog nobody wants." He paused. "Still not sure I really like the dog sometimes."

"It's okay, Paul Anka is hard to know," said Lorelai very soberly.

"I like that you call me on my crap, like the single bed, and not living with Nicole, and I hate that you stopped," concluded Luke, and held out a mug of tea.

Lorelai glanced around the diner, biting her lower lip. He could tell she wanted to mention that all the chairs were upside down on the tables, and the stools were, too.

He sat on the floor.

She sat by him.

"I like that you know why I didn't want to spruce that spot," he said and finally ran out of energy, if not words. He sipped the tea. It was a new blend, from the shop Lorelai had mentioned many months ago, some sort of green tea with blueberries. He liked it. From her subtle nod, so did Lorelai.

He waited for her to speak.

"That's a lot," she remarked quietly, eyes fixed on his dad's hand-written scrawl.

"You're a lot."

"That's a consistent complaint you have, yes."

His inner Other-Luke wanted to kick his ass. _See? You only open your mouth when you're grumpy and angry, and people think that's all there is! How often did Mom tell you, if you can't say something nice, at least don't say anything mean? Huh? You complain about jam hands, you don't know your kid for over a decade. You feel sorry for yourself that your life is exactly how you told it to be, and ask who the lucky guy is._

"I rant at myself. When I shut up. Get inside my head."

"Okay?" ventured Lorelai.

"I argue in my head a lot. You do it out loud. I do it in here." He tapped his chest. "That whole grouchy act. It's not an act."

"I know," replied Lorelai softly, eyes shimmering sapphire blue. "I didn't used to know. I still like you, though. You're patient with Kirk when nobody else is. I know you say it's to keep him from complaining, but you're not that way with Taylor. I like how you do anything for your kid."

"Back at ya," whispered Luke around a lump in his throat.

"I like your loyalty to your past, to your sister and Jess. I like that you're not scared to be angry. I don't like how you get angry, but you let yourself get angry. I still get scared to really be _really_ angry."

Luke's breath caught. "Yeah, well, that DVD. Your parents. That Christmas. Geez, Lorelai, why didn't you tell me?"

"I tried. But you always said I should be grateful for my parents being alive and wanting to help, and I like that about you. Not how you say it sometimes, but…" She shrugged, set down her now-empty mug. "You were so angry we didn't set a date while Rory and I were on the outs. I've got to ask, Luke. Is that why, with April?"

"No," he answered wearily. "I was scared if we didn't set a date right away, you'd leave. I _knew_ better. But I didn't _believe_ it. Or you. You, you're always believing even if you're not sure, and that's… It's crazy. To me. But you're… We're… I need that crazy. Irrationality and transcendence," he quoted again. "But constant, at the same time."

"I thought if I was obedient…" Her smile turned watery and feeble. "If I could just figure out the rules and stick to them long enough… I stuck to the rules for you, y'know?" She sniffled and gestured weakly in his direction. "But they kept changing. And when you accused me of cheating…"

Luke bristled. "I never said that!"

" _Who's the lucky guy_ is not a statement of trust!"

He flinched, goose bumps raising along his spine despite his warm flannel shirt.

"You like me. You love me. Yeah, well, pal, will you ever _trust_ me to not leave like Rachel, to not run off to get an education like your mother, to not cheat like Nicole and Anna? Because this, us?" She pointed to her chest, then his, and back. "It's no good if you don't think I'm sticking around!"

He opened his mouth to throw accusations but stopped mid-breath, shoulders sagging. If ever he'd held moral high ground, then he'd long since surrendered it. "And it's no good if you think I'll keep running to my clubhouse."

She nodded, curls flipped back with an impatient hand. "Think hard, Luke. I have. Can I believe you? I can accept Anna in your life, duh, you share a kid. Will you ever accept that I'll be around Christopher? Not as often, but y'know. Sometimes it's bound to happen. Is it going to always be this passive-aggressive back-forth up-down crap? I don't know about you, but I'm tired of it. If we can't talk about things before it hits nuclear meltdown, then…"

Luke nodded blindly, clenching his hands. "Yeah. Every day, talk about everyday stuff."

"I have to go home and shower and go to work, because my business partner has a little five-pound baby to worry about, and we're heading into foliage season soon. Bookings and weddings and touristy stuff."

He understood that, admitting harshly, "I want to make the promise."

Her voice crackled. "I know. I'll want to believe it."

She slipped out the back door of the diner.

 _No more lies_ , he remembered bitterly. He should have worked on _no more fears_.

He looked at his dad's scrawled note on the wall.

"Screw you," he breathed softly, clenching his hands. "So damn wonderful that you couldn't let Mom stay. So friggin' great that Liz ran to drugs and booze. Like father, like son, you…"

He couldn't explain it, not clearly, but he felt immensely better when he'd duct-taped a menu over his dad's handwriting. As if he had taken a breath he didn't know he needed.

GG GG GG

AN: I decided for this fic that Luke's dad did not deal well with losing his wife, and whatever he was to others, his kids saw more of the ugly side of it. Also, three grieving people in one house? Oh, that can be messy. Which, btw, is how grief and all that works in real life.

Pi Day is real. (Pi Day 2015? Free pie if you mentioned it was mathematical pi day, at a local bakery. Yes, I got my free slice of pie. Key lime. Mostly, they just discount pie. Darn it.) Dates "American style" have month-day-year. Other places have day-month-year, e.g., 14-3-2015 for March 14 (or 14 March, as case may be). I'm comfortable with both, but it confuses the dickens out of my spouse if I don't stick to the US format.

"Only a flesh wound" or something like that is from a Monty Python movie. I don't recall which one. Holy Grail, probably.


	23. Chapter 23

Disclaimer: If it was mine, there'd have been no Christopher ever again after he said, "Nice shirt, take it off" in S1. Ergo, not mine.

AN: Clarity: We're post-series, into autumn 2007. And, yes, I know, Luke's been acting insane. But this is AU, and he's facing a lifetime of self-inflicted BS, and that tends to make people loopy. This fic covers what Liz probably dealt with over a lifetime of attempts at rehab and sobriety, really, only in Luke's head.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THEE

Rory flung her arms wide, dropped to her knees and hugged the cardboard boxes. "My babies," she crooned. "Oh my babies. Did my mommy take good care of you?"

"Didn't even touch the tape. Boxes dusted, contents still in vacuum-sealed plastic bags as instructed," drawled Lorelai with a pointed little smile that her daughter ignored. "Have you got any idea what it's like putting _that many books_ into _that many bags_ and then using that vacuum-sealing thing?"

"Nope," said Rory cheerfully, stood carefully to avoid bonking her head on the attic's ceiling, and sighed. "Well, Thomas Wolfe did say you can't go home again, but, y'know, this works."

"Better than cots in hotels and bus seats?" prodded Lorelai, gnawing her lower lip anxiously.

Rory hugged her, knocking her backwards into the chimney that bisected the attic almost exactly in the center. "Oh my God, Mom, I missed you! You smell like home! Minus coffee." She stepped back to frown at Lorelai. "Still no coffee?"

"Nope." Lorelai tightened her grip. "I missed you, too, kid. Seriously, I'm taking the couch, my loin-fruit is home, you get breakfast in bed, not breakfast on couch, Mommy wants to pamper you."

Rory clambered down to the kitchen. "Um, Mom, how do I put this?"

Lorelai climbed down the stair-ladder with care. "Greek yogurt, fruit, and oatmeal is _not_ cooking!"

"Ew," said Rory promptly, and made a face. "I get that at the continental breakfasts. I was thinking toaster pastries?"

Lorelai smirked, and opened a cupboard to reveal four boxes of toaster pastries. "Ta-da! We have chocolate, cinnamon-sugar, strawberry, and variety pack."

With a little squeal, Rory hurled herself at Lorelai and squeezed tight. "Thank you, Mom."

Heart singing to have her kid _home_ , Lorelai chuckled. "Hey, I listen. No fiber, no nutrition. You're only here for a few days, we gotta live it up. I even bought British popcorn."

Rory's eyes widened. "You. Bought. Sugared. Popcorn."

"Two bags."

Rory collapsed into a chair at the same old table, and sighed. "Wow. You _rock_. I feel like I just got out of a really uncomfortable dress, y'know? I know we don't have to be all suit-and-stuff, but it's the atmosphere. Tense. Hectic. Boring."

"Ah, adult life," sighed Lorelai with a melodramatic flourish. "Yep, sums it up, kiddo."

Rory stretched her arms over her head, flopped slack and loose. "Lane told me that you and Luke are still, y'know. Not you and Luke all in one word. It's been over a year, Mom. I get it, I do, but…"

"No, you don't get it," interrupted Lorelai, cold pain flowing in her veins. She began making hot water for a cup of tea she wouldn't drink. "This isn't talking out a few things with a self-help book on the table! If he won't trust me, then why the hell should I even try to trust him? He said no more lies, then he lied and lied again! He thought I'd cheat! Maybe if he'd told me more, if I'd told him more, when we were supposedly best friends… But we didn't, and here we are, and you do _not_ judge that, _get it_?"

Rory paled. "Mom…"

"In the last eighteen months, I lost a baby, my parents got divorced, my kid left home, and I lost the _one_ guy… No!" stormed Lorelai, and knocked the cup of steaming water into the sink. The mug shattered. "If you think a year cures _that_ , then, kid, you got a lot to learn!"

Wide-eyed, Rory pushed her hair behind her ears and said quietly, "Okay. I just… I guess I… You seemed okay."

"Rory, honey," sighed Lorelai and leaned hard on the counter to keep from falling down. "You were twelve before I ever let you see I wasn't okay all the time. You're out there, conquering worlds, like you should be." Tears slid hot down her cheeks. She wiped at them, impatient with the emotional display. "I'm as okay as possible, I'm sorry I yelled, I'm feeling rotten. I'm supposed to know that Emily has good intentions, even if her actions suck, and be with Luke when he can't say he trusts me, so what's the point, and Sookie's out till the new year, with Anthony."

Obviously scrambling for a diversion, Rory opted for, "Not Tony?"

"Nope. Anthony Belleville or nothing. Something about a saint who was hope of the helpless or help of the hopeless, she wasn't too clear, but she told Jackson if he chose not to get the snip-snip, she gets to choose the name." Slowly, Lorelai made her way to the table, sat down, and opened her arms. "C'mere."

Rory gave her a hug. "Sorry, Mom. Want you happy." She wheezed out, "And some air. Mom?"

Lorelai sniffled and giggled simultaneously. "Sorry. Lots of hugs to catch up on. I'm not unhappy, Rory, I'm just not with a guy. There _is_ a difference."

"Ouch, got me right in the feminism," joked Rory weakly. "Change of topic?"

"Please," said Lorelai. "God, kid, _please_ change the subject."

"I want to eat supper at the diner."

Lorelai let her stare speak for her.

"Hey, I've had _tons_ of diner food now, I'm an expert, and believe me, I want _good_ diner food. Okay? Please? For me?"

"Rory…" Lorelai verbally squirmed.

"Mom, I don't care if you say anything to Luke, I just want good chili fries and a chance to talk to Lane, you can sit there and nibble carrots."

Lorelai rubbed her arms to ward off a nonexistent chill. "Okay. But no carrots. I have my limits."

Rory bounced out of the room. Lorelai trailed after her, and told the dog, "You're my new favorite kid."

The dog wagged his tail.

The closer they got to the diner, the more uncertain Lorelai became. Rory chattered onward, stopped abruptly at the very door. "Uh. Mom?"

"In you go," said Lorelai brusquely, and opened the diner door. "Your adoring fans await."

The first sound was Lane squeaking happily. Voices rose, a babble of greetings and questions. Lorelai quietly slipped back outside, and inhaled deep through her nose, exhaled through her mouth. The twilight tasted to her like apple juice smelled, still sweet, not yet crisp, or sharp. True autumn was near, and with it, town festivals, falling leaves, the deepening hue of the sky.

She sensed a presence on the sidewalk. "Hey," said Luke.

"Hey."

He passed over a take-away cup. "Green tea. One sugar."

"Thanks."

"She looks great."

"She is great."

The pause stretched uncomfortably into a _stop_.

"Do you think you'll ever trust me again?"

Lorelai choked on a sip of green tea. "Huh?"

Luke simply stared at her. He was giving her the chance to have the words, and she didn't know what to do with any of them.

"I…" she started, then looked away, down, anywhere but at Luke.

"We did pretty good with writing," said Luke slowly, thoughtfully. "We could… Call each other? Maybe a few times a week? Just… Y'know… About whatever's going on. Diner stuff. Inn stuff. Life stuff. Stop worrying if we _should_ bring up something."

Fear demanded Lorelai run. Nostalgia mixed with hope ordered an immediate agreement. After a few moments of emotional juggling, Lorelai concluded aloud, "That's a good plan. Talking. Not worrying if we _should_ discuss something with each other. If we're going to even be friends again, well, we need to be able to talk."

Luke seemed glad and disappointed. Lorelai sympathized. "Okay. So. Uh. Rory's not staying too long before she hits the road again?"

Lorelai turned, beaming softly at the sight of her daughter, surrounded by happy townspeople. "Yep, back to wherever it is. They're switching her to a different candidate, they have to do paperwork stuff."

"I'll call you Tuesday?"

"That works." Then, because Lorelai needed to talk herself out of talking herself out of talking to Luke, she told him, "Rory's counting on chili-cheese fries."

"Can't disappoint the next Christiane Amanpour," said Luke, with a gentle grin. "Thanks. I'll talk to you Tuesday."

He smiled shyly, as the diner door closed behind him.

Lorelai sat on the step and said to her cooling green tea, "Don't look at me like that. I'm not agreeing to marry him. It's talking. That's it. Talking. Making sure we talk. Not thinking we know, because wow, we really didn't sometimes."

She had a horrible moment of _if only we had…_ before she stomped it flat with a terse _but we didn't_. Then she felt strong enough to go into the diner, to join the celebration of Rory's temporary return.

GG GG GG

For his granddaughter's sake, Richard smiled and rapped on the front door of what was once his own house. It was unthinkable that Emily not host a supper before Rory returned to her work. "Don't be silly, Richard, we'd never fit into that cottage of yours," had been her actual statement.

"Oh good," said Emily as she opened the door. "It's you."

Her tone said _drop dead, peasant_.

Accustomed to worse from people more formidable than Emily, Richard said genially, "Good evening, Emily, I see you've been renovating."

"Oh yes, this place needed fresh air."

A quick look around told Richard that Emily's definition of fresh air was not the same as his own. "Does this style have a particular name?"

"Art Deco. I find it very clean and refreshing. No clutter. No tiresome heirlooms."

He was tempted to ask if Andy Warhol soup can paintings came next, but decided to focus on pleasant topics. "The girls are here, I see."

"Yes. Do come sit down. Martini, I suppose?"

The somber old house had been gutted. Expecting some sort of rejoicing from Lorelai, Richard glanced at his daughter and found her regarding the place as if she'd walked into a morgue. Then again, Richard had to admit, there was something cold and clinical about the new design aesthetic. "It's, ah, no martini, but juice, please, thank you, Emily."

He took a seat, and Rory muttered to him, "What's black and white and geometric all over?"

Emily chirped, "I was thinking of _The Great Gatsby_ , but cleaner. The designer was inspired."

"Really?" asked Lorelai thinly, and sipped what seemed to Richard to be water. "To what? Make sure you can break all the tables?" She glanced meaningfully at the coffee table, a symphony of ebony and glass. "And, uh, the wallpaper is… Y'know what? I got nothin'. Rory?"

"The accent color is, er, very interesting. What do you call it? Eggplant?"

"Good heavens, no! Aubergine!"

"I know my language skills are minimal," replied Lorelai with an evenness Richard could tell came at a price, "but isn't aubergine the French word for eggplant?"

"It is," said Richard quickly. "A rather purplish color, dark, really, but the, ah, the light catches beautifully off all the glass."

Emily's simper was a sword. "Thank you, Richard. Rory, more wine?"

"Please, yes, thank you."

Richard met his daughter's eyes. They said what he felt: _Oh, to be drunk!_

"The wallpaper is silk, a minimalist design from Japan."

"That's nice," said Rory too enthusiastically. "But I could have sworn Gatsby had more, y'know, curlicues and stuff?"

"That's Art _Nouveau_ ," sniffed Emily, swirling wine and crossing her ankles daintily. Richard wondered what the difference was, but didn't ask. Silence was, truly, golden.

"It's very optical illusion-ish," offered Lorelai, then grimaced into her glass. When she shifted her weight, the leather upholstery _squeaked_. Richard stared at it with mild horror. "So. Um. Nice of you to have us for dinner, Mother."

"You needn't sound as if I am a cannibal!"

Richard's "Emily" rumbled up by habit. He coughed, then filled in with, "She simply meant to express gratitude, as I do. Now, it's six-thirty, I believe dinner should be served."

"It is on time, naturally, I've had no difficulty keeping a competent maid lately."

Richard wanted to say something along the lines of _balderdash_ but Lorelai beat him to it with an acidic, "Finally gave them combat pay?"

Emily's cheeks colored bright and hot. "Here we are."

Lorelai's little "Oh" summed it up for Richard. The dining room was completely unappetizing.

Rory reached toward the table, pulled back. "Um. Black marble?"

"Actually, enamel inlay, finely polished, the wood is mahogany."

The chairs were upholstered in a black-white-and-not-at-all-eggplant fabric. The solid shining-black backs had an odd motif that made Richard think of a fan, or a peacock's tail, without the beauty.

White placemats and white napkins were offset by stark black dishes. A swan-white vase held deep purple flowers.

"I don't recognize the flower," said Rory weakly.

"Dahlias. The Diva variety."

Richard reached over and clamped a hand on his daughter's wrist, and shook his head. It was too easy, and too cruel.

"Is the entire house…" started his daughter hopelessly. " _Aubergine_?"

"Oh no, merely these two rooms," said Emily before Lorelai could finish that question. Richard stifled a sigh of relief. Black, white, and _raw liver_ in a bathroom would render him unable to use the commode.

"I've selected charming neutral reds and blues and greens, it's very colorful and restful."

Lorelai mouthed _neutral red_ in disbelief. Rory gave a quick roll of her eyes. Richard told himself that his blood pressure was not rising, but did not believe it.

The food arrived. The salad was dull, with sweet dressing; the soup, tomato in need of a pinch of salt; the entrée, a veal medallion with tiny potatoes, neither with any sauce whatsoever. Dessert was the crowning slap at both himself and Lorelai, in Richard's mind. After watery lettuce, a meager cup of tomato liquid, and dry meat, the dessert consisted of prettily sliced raw apples.

"There we are, very healthy and satisfying, don't you think," gloated Emily, and managed to do so while sounding polite.

"Has the cook heard of herbs and spices?" asked Richard, unable to keep his temper in check another moment. "Would a pepper grinder have been too much to ask? Good God, Emily, there are ways to accommodate someone's dietary preferences without _insult_."

"Whatever do you mean?"

"Dad," cautioned Lorelai, "remember the doctor."

Richard bit down on a great deal of frustration, and did the calming breathing technique meant for just such moments. It allegedly lowered his blood pressure and heart rate. "Lorelai," he gritted out through clenched teeth. "I will _not_ be _shushed_."

"I got this, Dad," his daughter promised, stood, and threw an apple slice at Emily. "So what's this, _Mom_? A pregnancy test for me, or just rude?"

The little red-skinned white-fleshed slice of fruit sat on the table mere inches from Emily's wine glass. Emily stared at it, paling, before setting her jaw and raising her voice. "How dare you behave like a spoiled child! You ruin everything!"

Lorelai dropped into her chair. Richard didn't blame his daughter for the seeming weakness. Anyone would be stunned. "Wow. Okay, nothing new here." She rubbed her temples. "Hundredth verse, same as the first. Do you know, Mother, you might not be too old for this, but I am. Rory, if you want to stay, I can…"

"No, I'm good, I need…" Rory's visible unhappiness pinged at Richard's heart. "Sleep. Y'know. Big trip tomorrow once I find out where I'm going. Thank you for, uh, supper, Grandma."

"I'll take my leave, as well," said Richard grandly, and stared miserably at his ex-wife, love of his life and yet his bane. "Thank you for the invitation. We'll see ourselves out, of course."

"Unnecessary," said Emily, and stalked him to the door with slow steps punctuated by, "This is genuine alabaster," and "Black granite," and similar details he didn't want to know. Courtesy was a harsh master, at such a moment. He could not, by training, simply run for it.

Outside, he found Rory eating a candy bar. Lorelai broke a small rectangle in half, and offered some to Richard. "Dark chocolate, Dad, the docs can't yell. Much."

"Oh thank God," he sighed, and let the bittersweet wonder melt on his tongue. "Minty. Very nice."

"With Sookie still at home and all, I'm using these as my go-to addiction."

"Good choice."

Rory pouted a little. "She killed the house. And I have to inherit it."

Lorelai hugged her, one-armed, around her waist. "Don't worry, sweets. She'll redecorate again in a few months. I'm betting something like Versailles."

"No bet," replied Richard, and patted his Audi fondly. A man's car was a comfort in a time of distress. It did what it was meant to do, and could be readily repaired. He forced himself to smile. "Rory, dear, I am very proud of you. Now, we should say good night."

After a few hugs, kisses on cheeks, he waved farewell to his girls, and drove away from the one he'd once thought most important.

AN: Diva Dahlias exist. No joke. That's the name of the variety. Too good to pass up. Minimalist Art Deco aesthetic described is taken from actual pictures from the Art Deco period. Since they weren't in color, well, neither is Emily's renovation. I did check colors used with the black-white theme, and those were among the colors mentioned. Actually, now I think about it, the dining room sorta sounds like the one from the scene late in the film _Beetlejuice_ , right before everyone sings Harry Belafonte and the shrimp cocktails attack… Huh. Great. Now when I watch that for Halloween, I'll be seeing Gilmores at the table.

Just so everyone knows, Saint Anthony is the patron saint of lost items. Saint Jude is the patron saint of desperate cases and lost *causes*. People confuse the two, I'm told, by my husband. All I know is, my grandmother referred to Saint Jude as "hope of the helpless and help of the hopeless". So I sort of… I dunno. I needed filler and a name for the kid and here we are.

GG GG GG


	24. Chapter 24

Disclaimer: Theirs, theirs, and theirs. Not mine.

AN: This fic will not be long enough to cover Emily suffering from the global financial crisis. Imagine whatever fate for her you wish.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Emily Gilmore raised her voice in a shrill, "Why is there a fingerprint on this table?"

The maid of the week hurried into the room. "Ma'am, I haven't cleaned in here yet."

"Why not?!" asked Emily indignantly. "My garden club expects to be served a decent meal in a clean house, not slop in a trash dump!"

"Ma'am, you told me to polish all the metal and clean all the glass first thing," said the maid in a polite, yet desperate voice. "There's quite a lot of that."

"Well, it's not my fault you can't do your job, my goodness, look at this!" scolded Emily harshly, pointing at the offending finger marks, whorls and ridges shockingly visible to her eyes.

The maid began to breathe unevenly. "Mrs. Gilmore."

"Do not excuse yourself, there is no excuse, you are paid a good wage to keep this house shining clean!"

"Ma'am," the maid tried again, face reddening.

"Don't stand there stammering!" Emily bit out. "I don't have time for this ridiculous behavior, and I've yet to change for lunch!"

The maid screamed, " _Shut up!_ " and hurled the bottle of cleaner and rag away. They struck the white vase on the table. It broke into gleaming ivory fragments.

Hand at throat by her not-cultured pink pearls, Emily gasped, "How dare you!"

"Shut up! You want one person to clean this, this…" The maid gestured wildly, and tore off her white apron. "And those are _your fingerprints_ on the table!"

"Oh, really?" sneered Emily, advancing on the insolent little twit. "You're so certain? I assure you, I can have those fingerprints identified!"

The maid thrust up her hands. "I don't have fingerprints, you old witch!"

Emily admitted that the maid did not. Where little whorls and ridges should be, the maid's fingers bore thick, oddly smooth skin.

"I used to be a paramedic! I burned my hands real bad at an accident, the car was on fire, but the kid was maybe save-able, I had to take off my gloves to unbuckle the safety belt, and I still don't feel my fingertips! I never will! I don't have normal fingerprints! That's your mess, _you clean it up_!"

Shocked beyond intelligent thought, Emily whispered, "Why on earth did you become a maid?"

Furious tears poured down the maid's face. "I can't feel my fingertips!" She thrust her hands at Emily. "Put a pin in! I won't feel it! I _can't_! I can't feel to start an IV or feel a pulse, and you're screaming at me about some stupid smears on a fancy table!"

"Get out," ordered Emily coldly, stomach turning flips at the sight of the thick calluses, scars, and odd patches all over the hands of the maid. "You won't be paid."

"Did you know," the maid retorted bitterly, "I wondered why you were alone, when I came on Monday. Now?" She laughed roughly. "Lady, whatever you do, hire someone to take care of those fancy fish, because you? You're lethal."

The maid stalked away, slamming the front door.

Emily sank to a chair. She began to shiver. She pressed her lips tightly together. She looked at the shards of the vase.

She made a phone call she couldn't bear to make, but had to make to save her lunch.

On the second rang she heard a smiling, "Lorelai Gilmore, Dragonfly Inn, how may we help you?"

"Lorelai. It's your mother."

The silence on the other end hurt Emily.

"I require assistance."

The silence became a strangler's noose.

"In ninety minutes, there will be eight ladies here for lunch, the maid quit, and I've no idea if the food is even in the house. I'm aware you run a business. I am turning to you for catering. Emergency catering. Lunch for nine, to be served at half-past noon, can your friend Sookie manage that? I will pay double the usual, given the circumstances."

"I know someone in Hartford who can manage something on that short notice. Janice Cartman."

"No!" shouted Emily, and clapped a hand to her mouth in horror. She'd sooner order pizza than allow Richard's home caterer to know her problem.

"Okay, then, but we do have a lunch here today. I think we can manage to send over tarragon chicken on rice, with a cranberry-strawberry sorbet…"

Emily heard Lorelai talking on another phone, presumably to the chef.

"And some thyme-seasoned cream of chestnut soup."

"Suitable, if odd. Cream of chestnut?"

"You can order pizza," said Lorelai coolly.

"Lorelai, this is…"

"We'll have the food there by quarter-past noon. Thanks for considering Sookie and her staff for your catering needs."

"Lorelai," she tried again. "Please. Can't you serve the lunch?"

"You hated me being a maid, but now you want me to be your waitress?"

"I merely meant…"

"By quarter-past noon at latest," confirmed Lorelai, "payment upon delivery."

"Of course," whispered Emily, belatedly growing aware of Lorelai's similarities to herself. Stubbornness was the least of them. "Good day."

"Thank you for thinking of the Dragonfly Inn."

Very slowly, Emily got to her feet. She rummaged the house until she found cleaning materials, and she tidied away the vase shards. She wiped the table until it shone. She carefully set each place at the table herself, ensuring her name card was anchored at the head, and spacing the rest of the ladies for best conversation and least antagonism. She moved a vase of lilies from the bedroom to the dining room, and wiped the crystal of the vase. She dressed, primped her hair, and enhanced her lipstick. By the time the knock came at the kitchen door, she was prepared.

Lorelai and someone in a chef-looking apron and whites marched into her kitchen. They bore very big armfuls of what looked to Emily like giant pizza boxes, but clanked of metal. She recognized insulating food carriers. "We're early, but Manny volunteered to oversee the food, and do the serving."

"Thank you," said Emily stiffly. "It's quite kind of you."

Lorelai's suit was dark blue, her blouse silvery white, and her eyes the shade of a cold ocean. "I'm sure your guests will be here for the pre-lunch chit-chat, so you see to that, I'll show Manny where the dishes are."

By reflex, Emily commanded, "Use the white plates, please, I set out the aubergine mats and napkins. The black china wouldn't be appropriate."

"Whatever you say, ma'am," said this Manny person.

Emily looked despairingly at her daughter. How had they drifted so far from her dreams? She did not want to know, not truly, as she watched her daughter hold open a refrigerator door, retrieving something green and fragrant at Manny's request, and toss Manny a pair of cotton gloves from the appropriate drawer. "For service," she told him quietly. "No bare hands, no fingermarks, think _Masterpiece Theatre_."

"Got it," said Manny. "Big eaters?"

"Not usually," offered Lorelai, "too much competition over whose diet is doing best."

"Lunch ladies, got it," said Manny, absorbed in admiring the stove. "I dream about kitchens like this."

Emily felt absurdly out of place. All the moreso when Lorelai started the coffee maker.

"So far," whispered Emily, unheard.

The stove's burners ignited bright blue. Manny unpacked pots and glanced at the clock. "Uh. You're in my way."

"Oops," said Lorelai and stepped aside, and turned. She was now facing Emily, who felt as if she'd sooner confront a screaming maid.

"Have a good lunch," said Lorelai at last. "I heard the bell."

"Yes," agreed Emily. "I'll see to it."

"Have a good lunch," said Lorelai impersonally, and turned away, saying, "Okay, Manny, the plates are over here and…"

Emily briskly walked out of the kitchen, pasted a smile onto her face, and reached the front door with a beaming, "Eleanor! I do apologize, I had to speak to the caterer, you know how it is, come in, please, your hair looks lovely!"

GG GG GG

Luke shifted his weight until he discovered there was no comfort to be had when admitting, even by phone, "Well, uh, that year… Okay, look, the whole _Star Trek_ thing, I just wanted everyone to get along, and everyone on the show got along, y'know? The good guys won, the bad guys lost, and when you had to listen to my dad and Taylor's dad yelling every day? Galactic harmony sounded good."

The silence on the other end seemed mocking.

Luke flared, "Hey, it was…"

"That's sweet," said Lorelai softly. "Why not just tell me that?"

"You mocked!"

"Okay, fair enough, and what about me and cartoons? I like goofy fun that doesn't really hurt anyone, but your first words were that rabbits don't really eat carrots!"

Luke opened his mouth to argue that rabbits, in fact, did not eat carrots that way, when his inner Other-Luke reminded him _why_ they were calling each other. "Oh. Right. Well. Yeah. I guess that is kinda, uh…"

"Mocking?"

"Not so nice," confessed Luke. "Yeah. Your turn."

"My turn," sighed Lorelai. "Guys don't like girls who wear glasses."

Luke sat up, frowning, as though he could reach out and touch her. "What?"

He swore he could hear her toying with a strand of hair. "Um. Smart girls. See, Rory… Oh wow, this is really hard to say, I mean it, Luke, this is triple-chocolate-milkshake territory."

"We can leave it. Talk about something else."

"No, it's… It's about April, sorta. The science project she did. How easy it is for her, to do math and science? That was like me, back then. Only my parents weren't all yay-hurray. Like you. Like Anna. With April."

"Lorelai?" Frowning, Luke wished they hadn't stuck to this ridiculous phone-only rule. He could tell she needed a hug, a warm hug, the sort she refused because (as they'd discussed a few days earlier) a hug was not _proper_ right now.

"That's what I kept hearing. As a kid. Girls don't do well in math or science without studying and working and pretending they need help, or guys won't ask them out," she answered glumly. "The weird thing is, I used to tutor _Chris_. It was okay to do well in English like Rory, or history class, because hey, society, snobs, they love that history…"

Biting back a curse, Luke mentally envisioned the way Emily would have gone about informing Lorelai how _wrong_ it was for Lorelai to be… Well, _Lorelai_. That one DVD had been worth ten thousand words, easily.

"The biggest problem I had at college wasn't the classes, it was how tired and scared I was. It was so hard. Trying to work and study and… My life must've looked like a wreck, it was, but if it was laundry or doing well on a paper, I had to do the paper, it was what I taught Rory to be like, so I had to show Rory I was like that, and I just… I guess that's a thing, with me. Guys, science, or even science fiction. I didn't… I wasn't _allowed_ to be good at it, and I sort of go all porcupine-y. Spiky. So, I see you with April and I just wish I'd had that."

"Wow," said Luke. "I, uh, I should've… Y'know, I missed your graduation. I wish I hadn't."

"It's okay. It's not much of a degree."

Luke assumed ranting position, albeit with his legs stretched out on the bed. "More of a degree than most people in this town have. You worked hard for it! You had to give up a lot for it! I refilled the coffee!"

She laughed in that low, thoughtful way he'd missed hearing for far too long. "Stand down, it's okay, it's… We said we'd share things. So, there's the thing. Do you have _any_ idea how hard it is to not babble and quip and make jokes when I'm this nervous?"

Luke's heart fell. "I make you nervous?" he asked unhappily. First he waited, then waited and waited and waited more, then pushed her away, and hurt her, and confused her (as well as himself and others). Now he scared her. The shreds of hope threatened to unravel.

"Luke, no, not you!" she said quickly. "This. All this this-ness. Saying what we think was obvious, and wondering if we sound stupid and pathetic, or at least I'm wondering."

He softened to his bone marrow. His voice lowered to a husky rumble that she'd once called his purr. "She says to the guy who lives in an office. You want to know something?"

"Yes? I think? Sure? I guess?"

He fumbled for words to illustrate his thoughts, and found an example. "That damn Donna Reed."

"What?"

"The whole dream thing. What it should be. Sticking to the dream. No matter what. Like… Dreams are good," Luke said, rather awkwardly, and exhaled a gusty, " _mostly_. It's just when they trap you that they get bad."

"No, dreams are good," argued Lorelai in a soft, sweetly pensive tone. "If you remember that it's okay for dreams to _change_."

Around a lump in his throat, Luke whispered, "That's pretty wise stuff."

"Back at ya."

"So time to, uh, get some sleep. Still got foliage season. Tourists."

"Yep. Taking pictures of pretty maples at sunrise, drinking apple cider, spending money."

He meant it as a passionate declaration of love when he said blandly, "G'night, Lorelai."

"Good night, Luke."

GG GG GG

AN: I've seen my mother-in-law's caterer unpack. That's as far as my knowledge of that sort of stuff goes. So, I've no idea if that would apply here or not. For all I know, this is last night's leftovers from the Dragonfly, but hey, whatever. My PTSD knowledge, however, is first-hand, and I can easily see such a scenario playing out. Many people who've suffered trauma have a hard time re-entering the work force, particularly if they can't return to the old job. The injuries are based on those of someone in real life, from a similar situation in emergency services, and the loss of one's fingerprints at the tips is possible. My mother needed skin grafts after she (gross stuff) and that fingertip's "print" is actually just the mark of the skin graft. The mark of the graft(s) will be unique, of course, but true fingertip "prints" will not grow if you've had to get skin grafts in that area. Why am I talking about this medical stuff?


	25. Chapter 25

Disclaimer: Not. Mine. Me no make no money.

AN: Thank you for the support, the criticism, all of it, and on to the next!

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

"Ground rules," said Lorelai, pacing anxiously around her back yard, while her dog watched with interest. "We need ground rules. Absolutely. Ground rules. Okay. Good idea."

Paul Anka woofed softly, tail wagging.

Lorelai paused. Having no idea what the dog said, she decided to agree with a bright, "You're right, you're a good dog!"

Paul Anka tipped his head to the side and wriggled. He currently had a phobia of leaving the porch, unless his paws touched bare ground. Lorelai's pacing was conveniently wearing a nice grass-free track around the perimeter of the yard.

"C'mon, be a good dog, come walk, okay? Walk?" implored Lorelai.

He whined, and scooted forward on his belly to the ramp.

Lorelai sighed, crouching, and beckoned. "Look, the grass is almost dirt! C'mon, you can do this!"

The dog inched forward.

"Okay, gotta crawl before you walk, walk before you…"

Lorelai stopped mid-word, beaming, and gave an excited squeal, and hugged the dog. She lay flat on the ramp alongside him. "Oh my God! You're such a smart dog! Who's a genius dog! Who's a good Paul Anka!"

He woofed again, and crawled over her legs after she rolled onto her back and sat up. She rubbed her dog's ears with a wide grin, and dialed a number.

"Hey," said Luke. "I just got upstairs."

This was a new thing, along with the regular phone conversations. Casual, insignificant information, simply to be certain they _spoke_.

"Good day?"

"Pretty much, busy, missing Lane. The band's in Boston."

"Rory told me, I'm so glad Lane and Zach could work that out," sighed Lorelai in honest relief. "Not that I think Zach would've cheated, no way, but Lane was going nuts not being part of the music anymore."

"Tell me about it, she was drumming in mid-air for months," replied Luke, his voice warm with amusement. "I think it's great. For them. But it takes two normal people to do the job Lane does. At anything. Steve and Kwan are driving Mrs. Kim crazy." There was a pause. "Crazier."

"How can you tell?"

"She's only speaking Korean. I had a hell of a time figuring out she wanted to know if I had avocados."

"Avocados?" snorted Lorelai, trying hard to not laugh, and failing.

"Yeah. Apparently, the boys drink lettuce water and eat avocados when she's got them, they were giving me that look, y'know?"

"Oh, I know," she agreed sagely, leaning comfortably against her dog. "I was watching them for a few hours at the inn, and they had this look Lane used to get that said, please, just no more tofu."

They shared a chuckle, before Lorelai mustered up her courage. She picked at a flake of polish on a fingernail. "Okay. So. Um. Ground rules. We were thinking."

"We were," agreed Luke. "The first few weeks have gone really well."

"Yep, and Paul Anka helped me figure it out."

"Oh geez, the dog," sighed Luke, and she heard a pop that meant he'd opened a beer.

"We crawl, then we walk."

"That's making sense. The dog, huh?"

"Yep."

"When do we try walking, do you think?"

"I don't know. I'm scared," admitted Lorelai, wrapping an arm around the dog for comfort. "It's easy. Like this. On the phone. But. It's not that I don't believe you care. I _know_ I care. It's…"

"Trusting," said Luke slowly. "Yeah, That's. That's a tough one. For both of us."

Lorelai's temper flared, from old hurt. "I trusted you just fine," she snapped, then softened it with a sad, "but it's hard to make that the present tense. And the future. Because, y'know. We had. We could have."

Her voice quavered.

Luke's was unsteady, too. "Yeah. I know. It's, uh, it's not as easy as those movies of yours."

"Or yours," she pointed out. "No magic phaser boom-boom to save the day."

"Yeah. That, too. Look, Lorelai, I know… You… You and me. Us. We. Okay, let me try that again."

She bit back quips. Anxiety and quippiness weren't going to help. He needed air to speak in, just as she did.

Luke said gruffly, "I feel like ranting, but I don't know what to rant about. Okay, I hate admitting that stuff, but that's part of the whole crawling, right?"

"Yes," Lorelai encouraged gently. "Exactly."

She closed her eyes, could imagine he was toying with the beer bottle, or his ball cap, and how rapidly he'd be breathing, his hands fisting.

"I miss you. I miss us. I miss the whole banter thing, and the way we could just be together and not need to banter, and I miss hiding from saying that stuff." He gave a cough. "The last time I talked this much about feelings and stuff… It was Rachel, we were basically still kids, and then she left, and I dunno why I ever kept taking her back except… I didn't want to start that over again? Only we were over anyway, it was like she came here and lived with me for a vacation or something? I can't figure her out, I never did." She heard a gurgle of (probably) beer. "Point is, Lorelai, I'm a lot happier this way. Now. Talking. Admitting things. It's like you said last week about your mom."

"The part about not bothering to fight about it anymore?"

"Yeah. About breaking a really bad habit. Bad most of the time."

"Exactly. Like, I need to be quiet more, and you don't."

"Yeah. And… Meet in the middle. Balancing things."

Lorelai thought about that. She had a memory of H-two-O being followed by a two-way arrow-thing, and two lone Hs with an O, separated by a plus sign. There was still the same number of H and O atoms, but they were put together a little differently. "I get the point," she assured him. "Same component parts, different results. It scares me, Luke. I know we've talked about how bad we've hurt each other, but… I just… I feel like you never trusted that I loved you, and that's _awful_ , because I did, and if you didn't trust it…" She stifled a sob, then gave up and wept into the dog's warm fur.

"Oh no. Oh crap. Geez. No. Lorelai. I… Yeah, I didn't trust your love, but I didn't trust anybody's, this is new."

Lorelai fought down an urge to hang up, end the call, run for it while she was still intact enough to recover. _Again_.

Luke's voice grew deep, thoughtful. "But I always know Liz loves me, and she always knows I love her. So I guess I do know how to believe love is solid." There was a liquid noise, a thump of glass on something. "We practice. Me and Liz. Talking what's inside us. All that AA stuff of hers, some of it really makes sense, but TJ goes to this Al-Anon, I guess it's different."

"It is, it's for family and friends of addicts," supplied Lorelai. She didn't reveal that she allowed the local group to use the inn for free. Anonymous _meant_ anonymous.

"They've got this saying. Love from a safe distance."

A cold ball in Lorelai's heart melted. She recognized it as self-loathing guilt. "Love from a safe distance," she repeated, thinking of Emily. "So that's okay?"

"When it's gonna get you killed to stay close, yeah. Which was kinda what I wanted to start with, y'know, you and your mom. It's okay to love her, but you can't be near her. She's dangerous for you. She's not an addict, but it applies. Thing is, I was using that safe distance thing when I didn't need to."

"So it was only distance," concluded Lorelai.

His chuckle was rueful, embarrassed. "I should pay you eighty bucks an hour."

"I'd have to pay it right back."

The dog gave a whuffle.

"The mutt wants his snack," said Luke gently. "You okay?"

"Yes and no. Are you okay?"

"Yes and no," he echoed.

There was a prolonged, increasingly uneasy hesitation between them. Twirling a bit of hair nervously, Lorelai prompted, "And?"

"Uh… So. Look, April wanted me to ask you, she needs soil samples for some project. She's looking for zoo-oh-somethings and you've got horses…"

Lorelai giggled. "You mean she needs manure. Does she need any from a dog?"

"No idea. She'll bicycle over after school this week sometime since it's okay."

"Look forward to seeing Michel's reaction," said Lorelai. "Thanks, Luke."

"Thanks, Lorelai. Good night."

"G'night," she whispered, ending the call, with a shiver. "Okay, wow. I'm a brave mommy, right, Paul Anka?"

He shoved against the door into the kitchen.

"I'm taking that as a yes," she told him, and opened the door, astonished to find she didn't feel a need to re-think the entire phone call.

GG GG GG

For Richard Gilmore, the days were busy.

It was strange, to be busy when allegedly retired.

He watched the financial news while on his blasted treadmill, every morning, before breakfast. He ate breakfast while perusing the _Times_ , saving the _Courant_ for later. Showered and dressed, he navigated e-mails, then took calls from old colleagues suddenly willing to pay for the privilege of a mere phone consultation. Richard found himself daily astonished by the basic ignorance of men who ran companies large and small. Their grasp of actual economics, of how financing worked, was limited. He felt as if he was forty years younger, telling Lorelai about it, at that same child's level.

After lunch, usually at the club or sometimes with a friend at a café, he might golf in fine weather. In less fine weather, he attended those small events that interested him, such as readings and recitals. He took another phone call or two, billing for his time to everyone but the oldest and best friends, mostly because he knew they sent paying customers his way. That was how it worked, for the successful.

Supper was followed by a leisurely workout while watching television, using absurd little hand weights as the BBC anchor told him about the world's events. He found it refreshing to remember the world existed outside Hartford, Connecticut.

Then he would read, listening to music sometimes, until bedtime. He slept deeply, and while at his age it was not possible to wake full of vigor, he did wake feeling more than capable of facing the day.

He loved Emily, still, but the restfulness of her absence had its compensations.

Sundays, he dined with Lorelai, and there was mellow conversation. Occasionally, they felt awkward, but Richard understood it would pass, and it did. He laughed at her tales about her ridiculous dog, and she opined about his clients, without spite, and with insight that came from her own limited experience and expertise. Like many highly intelligent people, Richard had little patience for the less gifted, but Lorelai had a way of asking questions that led to very good ideas. Rory's intelligence had never been from the Haydens, as far as Richard was concerned, but it was good to have that belief affirmed.

Monday evenings, he had his supper with Miss Cartman. They discussed the menu for the week, as well as general topics of business. A caterer, he found, had quite an array of concerns. Insurance for the kitchen, employees, liability, vehicles, equipment, all needed tweaking, in his opinion.

The other evenings were blessedly his own.

Thus, when he saw Emily at his door on a Tuesday evening, he was extremely surprised.

"Oh no, another ridiculous jogging suit," was his ex-wife's greeting.

"As it happens, I was engaged in exercise," he stated.

"Well, aren't you going to invite me in? It's chilly!"

"Of course, Emily, do come in."

She did, tastefully dressed, lovely as ever, save for the sourness around her mouth. "Quaint," she judged, but he wasn't foolish enough to believe her insulting tone was personal. He knew she was after something. What it was, of course, he'd find out.

She turned on him, fluid as a snake striking. "I'm told you plan to remarry. Is that true?"

He boomed a laugh that came from his gut. When he calmed, he gestured her to the couch and sat in his favorite chair. "My dear, no, it is not. Good God, once was enough. Moreover, I still love you. It would be unfair to any woman to marry her."

"Then why do I hear…"

"Miss Cartman," he deduced, heading her off before she could work herself into a froth. "Emily, she needs help with insurance and we give each other tips on potential clients and events and so forth. She's a very nice person, but as you can tell, we're not even on a first-name basis."

"Well, whyever not? And what if I want to remarry?" demanded Emily, chin jutting out.

"Then I give you my blessing, and envy him," said Richard simply.

"If you love me and you'd be upset, then why did you divorce me!"

Richard felt his blood pressure rising and his breathing grow shallow. He took several breaths in through his nose, and let them out his mouth, until he was reasonably safe in saying, "We've had this discussion. For pity's sake, we're divorced! My dinner companions are no longer your concern. You receive your checks on time. Your status in society is unharmed."

"You took the girls from me!" shrilled Emily, re-crossing her ankles. "You took Rory and Lorelai from me!"

"Very well, Emily, if you want to have this out, let us have it out." He rose, and took from his coat pocket a small vial. He took one pill, as precautionary, according to prescription, and poured himself some carbonated water. He gave Emily the same.

"Rory will barely _text_ me, or e-mail!" Emily snarled, bosom heaving. "As for Lorelai, she looks at me with _pity_. My own child! _Pitying_ me! What have you done, Richard, what did you tell them to take them from me!"

Richard frowned, swirling the fizzy water in the tumbler. He kept a small discreet refrigerator and a few drinks in the living room, out of habit. He wished he'd had to go to the kitchen.

"Answer me, Richard!"

"Do you hear yourself, Emily? Truly hear yourself?" he ventured kindly, in a lullaby cadence. "I _took them_? They were not your possessions. I did not steal a car or Ming vase. I did not ask them to have any allegiance. That is a despicable thing to do. We are family to both of them, and to each other, through them."

"I don't understand you!"

"Obviously," intoned Richard gravely. "Have you never once in all this mess wondered if you should help clean it up?"

"What mess? You're babbling! You're as bad as Lorelai, you're not making sense at all! What mess did _I_ make?"

He finally lost his temper with her as he'd longed to do for well over a year. He stood, and the words rolled like boulders in a flooding river from his tongue.

"What mess? You cried for years that our child didn't trust you, but you called her a _tramp_! You disdained her every choice, tried to control her every choice, even when she was quite definitely an adult! You did not even care that she lost a child, Emily! We would have had a second grandchild, but you did not so much as write her a _note_!"

Emily tossed her head, with a dismissive, "Why should I, she wasn't even married."

"You broke your word to me, you broke your word to Lorelai, you kept insisting on Christopher Hayden, well, Emily, if he's so blasted marvelous, then marry him yourself! My God, Emily, for two decades you harped on Lorelai's inability to grow past adolescence, but when did you ever mention anything that wasn't related to her teen years? Christopher," he ticked off on one upraised finger. "Unwed motherhood. Rebellion, which, by the way, is quite normal in teens. Every time you spoke about her or to her, you were finding some way to bring up the past! To ignore what _is_! Yes, she hurt us badly, and you were devastated, but my God, Emily…" He sank to his chair, shaking his head. "Did you never ask why she sought love from mere sex? Why she drank herself halfway to oblivion before old enough to vote? I have, these last months. And the answer is: she is no different than most of the children of our friends. She simply was _caught_. It struck me, not long ago."

"What did?" snipped out Emily, pale except for her bright red lipstick.

"She feared us. Rory never feared her. Rebelled, yes, manipulated, yes, and so forth. Us as well, if we're honest. Lorelai _feared us_. We never raised a hand to her, yet she was afraid of us."

Emily flicked a hand at the air. "Oh, poor Lorelai, boo-hoo. She's always been oversensitive!"

All Richard could find in reply was a sad, broken, "Oh, Emily. Is it any wonder so few trust you with their hearts?"

He studied his empty tumbler, a few regretful tears spattering into it, and did not stir when Emily huffed and stormed out, slamming his front door behind her.

GG GG GG

AN: I did learn that axiom in Al-Anon. "Love, but from a safe distance."  
Emily isn't evil. She's just stuck in 1986. In a bad way.


	26. Chapter 26

Disclaimer: What? Yeah. Uh-huh. Theirs. *zzz*

AN: Whoops! Forgot today was a two-chapter day! Chapter 27 is now also posted. *headdesk*

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Emily studied the koi pond. It was meant to induce serenity.

The fish were dead. It seemed they had found ultimate serenity.

The expert from the boutique fish dealer shook tiny bits of water in little vials, held them against strips of paper, and jotted down notes. He scooped out the dead decorative carp, interring each in its own piscine body bag.

"Well?" asked Emily, comfortably seated nearby to watch for no real reason beyond boredom.

"Ammonia," said the expert, rising to his feet and tugging his trousers into place. "Filter issue, is my guess, koi put out ammonia, then it kills them. If you don't keep the ammonia levels acceptably low, the…"

"Yes, yes, you answered my question. The groundskeeper failed to maintain the pond properly, dead fish, I quite understand. I think a lily pond will be more my métier. You may send me the bill."

The koi expert hefted a toolbox that reminded Emily far too much of a certain much-despised diner owner. His expression was not quite neutral enough to hide his being taken aback by her unconcern. "You'll want me to take the deceased with me?"

Emily rolled her eyes heavenward, and flicked a finger toward the back gate. "For pity's sake, of course I do! What would I do with them? Have supper? Haven't you anywhere else to be?"

The man blew out a breath that might have been a farewell and profanity, and soon enough ceased to irritate Emily by his existence.

She watched the flutter of leaves in the breeze. She listened to the _spish-spish_ of the artificial waterfall placed to appear as if it drained the koi pond into a bedded area of dense green Irish mosses. She felt the silky chill of her watch against her wrist. She tasted the faint fumes of traffic, mulch, fertilizer. She smelled quite strongly the jasmine tea in a cup and saucer balanced on her lap.

These, she had been informed, were excellent ways to enjoy life to its fullest.

Emily's anxiety strengthened.

She sipped the tea. Mindfulness was happiness, or so said the people at her day-spa. She minded the floral jasmine in her nostrils, and curling against her taste buds, like a bouquet on its last day.

She stared at the china. It was a new set, her own choosing, with the descriptive title of "evening opulence". The rims of all pieces looked a bit like black marble, with a 14-karat gold band inside it, that suited her new décor yet not restricted to it. The fineness of the design of the gold band intrigued Emily, reminding her of the interiors of opera houses and theaters she attended. It spoke to the heyday of wealth and the power of money to have beauty.

She listened to the clink of the cup on the saucer. It _rang_.

Her anxiety peaked.

Mindfulness gave her great awareness of her aloneness.

She took the cup and saucer to the house, and left them for the maid. She shouted, "I'm leaving but I have security cameras, you won't get away with anything!" Then she put on a nice tweed jacket, got into her car, and started to drive.

She did not have a destination.

She found herself at the Wadsworth, which was acceptable, and habitual. Museum attendance at random was never pitiable. She might even find a lecture or similar, which would provide her with some cachet. After all, self-improvement was never out of fashion, and a divorced woman could fly free, and so on.

Her chest tightened slightly when she heard a rich, rolling laugh.

She did not turn. She knew it was Richard.

She glided down the corridor to accost an employee for details on an upcoming temporary exhibit. Emily didn't know, nor care, about someone whose art looked like a child's painting to her, but she put on a face of attentive interest. The flustered employee recognized her name (a nice balm to her ego) and darted off to find someone more qualified to cope with Emily's simple request for information.

This allowed Emily to turn, casually, and catch sight of Richard, chatting away to one of his dull old Yale friends. By the look of it, they were sharing photographs of grandchildren or similar. The gleam in Richard's eyes told her he'd scored a coup. Obviously, the other man's grandchildren weren't Yale alumni.

The two men parted.

Richard had a bag from the gift shop. She wondered why. Her own birthday gift for Rory was a lovely set of Tiffany earrings, to be sent by insured shipping, upon the proper day. Even Richard couldn't think Rory would want some tacky postcards or dreadful resin-cast miniatures of sculptures. Her nostrils flared. Surely Richard wouldn't sink so low as to buy Rory an _imitation_ Hermes scarf.

Twenty minutes and one useless conversation later, she strolled into the shop, told the cashier, "I can't replicate my husband's gift and he's been very secretive, can you tell me what…"

As it turned out, Richard had purchased a book titled _100 Things to Do in Connecticut_. He'd also bought, apparently on a whim, some sort of artisan tea.

Emily smiled, thanked the clerk, and chose a book about Frida Kahlo. That, and earrings, trumped silliness by far.

She spent the afternoon shopping for a new wardrobe, only certain of one fact. If she stopped moving, she had to be mindful of her life, and that was not an insanity she could risk.

GG GG GG

October was a birthday month for a certain Gilmore. Luke tracked down her location, and shipped off a box of brownies and a bland card. Inside the card, he wrote _Rory, chocolate-chip pancakes don't travel well. Luke_.

It was small, but within the rules, such as they were. No hugging, no kissing, no flirting (even by indirect insults about eating habits and such), and _no_ assuming. Brownies were perfectly fine.

On Rory's birthday, Lorelai showed up at the diner, first thing, in a soft gray-blue sweater that made Luke remember all over again how bright her eyes were. She announced, "She's not home. I can't tell her. I lost the tradition. I didn't want to wake her up, she's so tired, y'know, and I ended up leaving the story on her voice-mail." Lorelai perked up a little. "At exactly…"

"I know," interrupted Luke, and gave her a cup of strong-brewed green tea. They'd agreed she'd come by if she needed to, and there she was. He hadn't really expected her. It felt like he'd won something to see her there, giving him that trust. "You need to wallow?"

"No. Yes. I dunno. Sookie's still home with Anthony, and…" Her eyes filled, shone, and she resolutely shook her head. "It was scary, how tiny he was. I'm just glad they're both doing okay."

"Yeah. Me, too." Luke ducked behind the counter, grabbed the plate he needed from the pass-through, and delivered it to Taylor. Back at the counter, he asked Lorelai gently, "Do you need anything? Muffin? Spinach? Beer?"

She didn't smile. "I have to get to work."

"Got a second?" asked Luke hopefully.

"Thirty," said Lorelai with a cheerful smile belied by her lonely eyes..

He took something out from under the counter. "It's a picture."

"I see that," she said, with a small teasing smirk. "Pretty frame. It's…"

The photograph was an eight-by-ten family portrait. April insisted on having it done. She stood between her parents, Anna's arm around her, and Luke's hand on her shoulder. He'd worn a nice shirt and tie, shaved, gotten a haircut, the whole deal. He'd burst with pride, and awe, to see he was the dad of this amazing kid.

"Wow," said Lorelai, voice drooping. "Uh. Wow. This is great. Look at you."

He leaned on the counter, wanting to kick himself. He muttered, "Is it because Chris never showed up for something like this for you and Rory?"

Her glare almost stopped him.

"Look, I gotta ask, I can't decide what you're thinking, right?" he prevailed hopefully.

"True, no, you can't, and it's not Chris," she replied, and sipped some tea, forehead crinkled. "That's good tea. It's kinda sweet but it's not sugary."

"I put in a little honey," said Luke, and laid a hand on her wrist, very lightly. He retrieved the photo. "I'm not gloating. I'm not saying they're my family over…"

"Luke," interrupted Lorelai in a cool, fragile voice, "you have a family, that's _good_. Did you get pictures taken with Liz and April, too? Doula and April and Jess, the cousins?"

"Yeah, we did," he confirmed, clearing his throat, and hid the April photograph under the counter. He pulled out the other. He pointed out, rather unnecessarily, "This one's just me and Liz and April. And Doula. Couldn't get Jess, no shock there."

"I can see resemblances," said Lorelai, more steadily and honestly, with a hint of a frown that was also a smile, in that way she had. He still found it captivating. "A bit of chin here and eye shape, and I think there's a little nose thing trying to happen. And thanks for sending Rory something. I mean, I sent her something, and Dad did, and Emily did, but it was nice to send her the brownies."

"I'm screwing this up," he sighed, and ignored a cry from Kirk about a refill. "I'm, uh, that guy now, is all. The one who talks about his kid and shows off pictures and I'm making this worse. I know, okay? I wish… But we…"

His temper ignited. He wasn't certain why. It simply did.

"And I'm not going to act like I don't love my kid just because we lost one!"

His voice had risen.

He knew it when the busy clanking of forks and cups came to an abrupt halt.

Lorelai's face was red. She stood, voice very low, very rough, her teeth clenched. "I didn't ask you to. I don't expect you to."

The venom in her words burned through him, down to his anger, and left him paralyzed.

He gulped air, feebly.

"I can feel sad and glad at the same time, Luke," spat Lorelai, tossing her hair, and throwing a five-dollar bill on the counter. "Sad because I'm missing my kid, glad you're with yours!"

She snapped a glare at Kirk, who leapt out of her way despite still being seated, and walked out with her shoulders back and head held high, her heels clicking quick and ominous as gunfire.

Inner-Luke ordered, _Move, go, talk, quick!_

Luke shook his head. He had the diner. He had things. He had stuff. He had customers!

"Everyone out?" inquired Taylor snidely.

Luke dismissed him with a sneering look, then told Kirk, "Yeah, got it, more raspberry jam in the green jar, I'm on it, Kirk."

Kirk said humbly, "Thank you, Luke, and thank you for letting me finish my breakfast."

He nodded grimly. "You're welcome."

"Do you want me to…" began Lane under her breath as he passed her at the coffee pots.

"No, I'm fine," said Luke, ignoring that he knew very well he was not fine, and that he'd gone ahead and put the worst spin on Lorelai's uneven mood, and lashed out at her.

 _So much for giving these moments some time before asking about them._ His inner Other-Luke proceeded to then give him a mental movie of every time he lost his temper and she had that same quivering sorrow in her gaze that meant she was hurt. Not angry. _Hurt, you idiot, you're the anger-response man, she's the comfort-eating woman, get a grip, get outta here! Go get her!_

At the grill, Cesar snatched the spatula away from him. "No way, boss. You mutter like that, everyone gets charcoal instead of food."

Luke wanted to shout at Cesar to mind his own damn business.

Cesar was, in fact, minding _Luke's_ business. Literally. The one that depended upon his customers not fleeing again. He'd only had the regulars back for a year or so.

Cesar then said, "Guess Lane gets the twenty bucks."

"What twenty dollars?" asked Luke with a sense of impending disaster.

"Everyone's been betting on this stuff," shrugged Cesar, plating eggs and pancakes with a deft flick of the wrist. "She and I were betting who'd make the first big screw-up. I said Lorelai, she said you. Hey, look at it this way, Miss Patty talked everyone out of a town betting pool. Well, her and Jackson."

When two of the four biggest gossips in town declined to allow a gambling pool on something, it spoke to the somber nature of that something. Or, perhaps, they'd learned sensitivity. All Luke knew was how lousy he felt. He reached into his wallet, pulled out two ten-dollar bills, and handed them to Cesar. "For Lane. She gets tips, you don't."

Cesar grinned, said, "Order up!" and turned back to the grill.

Luke wondered if putting his hands on the hot surface would teach him to stop _metaphorically_ burning himself. Knowing his luck, he concluded, it wouldn't.

Fear and habit rose, choking him. He went to deal with the register, and turned around to find himself face to… Well, at Lane's height, more her waving hand than her face. " _You_ ," she said fiercely, "you better not give up."

Luke brushed her aside, verbally, with a curt, "Me and Lorelai, it's complicated."

"I'm married to the front man in a rock band! Who has groupies! And sons pooping out foods they're not supposed to eat yet! Don't talk to me about _complicated_!"

Startled, Luke conceded she had some good points. They all seemed to be aimed at his throat.

"I really thought, okay, he figured it out, and here you are _again_ ," scolded Lane in a whisper. "Don't make me write a song about you!"

Somehow, Luke discovered he was no longer carrying his order pad, or his cleaning rag, and he was marching out the back door.

He heard a sudden, appalled, "Oh my God, I just talked to my boss like I do when Kwan knocks his breakfast on the floor."

As the door clicked shut, he heard Cesar's quiet, "Here's your twenty."

AN: Actually, I've no idea if the _100 Things to Do In…_ books were available in 2007, but I know there is one for Hartford, Connecticut. The museum in question does sell teas and books about Frida Kahlo. Now, anyway. And I don't own those books, or anything else you can recognize.

Lane's twins were born in March 2007 (based on air date of episode). I'm going on the assumption that, as in real life, someone (Mrs. Kim?) is possibly feeding them a little inappropriately for their age. There's always someone.

GG GG GG


	27. Chapter 27

Disclaimer: And now, the end is near, and I can see the final curtain… But it's not mine. Just doing it my way.

AN: Either "macaron" or "macaroon" is considered a correct spelling. You'll see why I mention it. Macaron is the French almond-meringue cookie I love. The macaroon, while considered the correct spelling also, is more recently used by foodies to refer only to the US Southern coconut cookie, which I dislike intensely. If I write macaron, I mean the dainty almond and meringue yummies I thought were the only macaroon/macaron, until rudely introduced to the US Southern coconut cookie. Normally, I would not bother with all this, but I hate to mislead people about food, and our gals are foodies in their way...

FOLLOWS IMMEDIATELY FROM END CHAPTER 26.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

"Michel, step away from the macarons. _Now_."

Michel's hand drifted back from the ornate confectionery box. "Very well, but you haven't the palate to appreciate the lavender, or the rose, or…"

Lorelai pinched the bridge of her nose, and ground out, "Take the purple, the bright pink, and those weird green ones that look like alien eggs."

"That is pistachio, you heathen!" Michel snatched up the purple (lavender) and bright pink (rose) and pistachio macarons. "You have the taste of a peasant!"

Tension rendered her voice tighter than her shoulders. "Fine, you eat them all, and worry about your waistline."

Michel considered, smoothed his tie, and said, "Fair enough," and shut her office door with unusual respect.

Lorelai investigated the remaining macarons. A pale green one seemed to be green tea. Two were chocolate. Another would be berry of some sort. From the card that came with them, from a grateful bride, it was all Lorelai's own fault for suggesting macarons as edible wedding favors that could be _color-coordinated_.

Of course, Lorelai knew it because she grew up with Emily Gilmore, who wouldn't serve food that (horrors!) _clashed_.

She bit into a cookie, and studied a book of ribbon samples she had herself assembled for brides. Solid colors in grosgrain tended to be her favorite, but there were some pretty satins, and a printed ivy pattern on sheer white that looked like a good choice for a spring wedding on her planner.

Her throat tightened. She wasn't allergic to almonds. She simply missed Rory. Ivy meant Ivy League meant Yale meant Rory graduating and off living independently. It was proper, but on Rory's birthday, she felt lonely for her _little_ girl.

She flipped to another heavy page of the album. She carefully laid in a strip of sheer ribbon with roses on it, with manufacturer's information and retail source on a card under it, dated. It was tedious work, updating sample books, but she needed mindless busy-ness. The fact she'd succumbed to macarons didn't even raise a twinge of guilt. She hadn't touched hamburgers or fries or waffles for _months_. Over a year, in fact. Macarons were small stuff, compared to Red Vines and Al's grab bags.

"And it's okay to have a bad day," she reminded herself sternly. She closed the box. She reopened it. She decided the green tea macaron was good but not _that_ good. She could afford to eat the berry. That left her two chocolate, and a soft green she knew was mint, and a boring one that would be wonderfully vanilla. Exactly the right amount and kind of wallowing food with a cup of hot chocolate at home. Good hot chocolate, she promised herself, made the idiot-proof way she needed. She would ask the kitchen for it.

"Why do you have those books? I've always wondered."

As if she'd not wanted to smash his face into a pie (and not a cream pie, at that), Lorelai told Luke, "I talk to a lot of event planners and I organize a lot of events, and the Inspiration Albums are a good way to get an idea or two. Sookie has some in the kitchen."

Luke shuffled into her office. "You, uh, oiled the hinges. You didn't hear me open the door."

"Some squeaks are charming, and some are annoying." She sat back, unsmiling. "I can offer you macarons."

She hated the way he reared back as if she'd sneezed all over his morning oatmeal. "Those are sugar bombs. What about eating healthy?!"

"I could get a large pizza and a six-pack," she said acidly, and set the box of macarons into a drawer, closing it with a decisive _thud_. "Luke, I realize I walked out, but I really didn't want to do this in the diner. Or here. Or at all. Ever again. What the hell, Luke?"

"I dunno, okay?" he groaned and shoved at his thinning hair, flinging his ball cap to the couch. "I just, I, this, you and April and your face and Rory!"

"Very coherent," applauded Lorelai sardonically, using what even Richard called _that silly little golf clap_. She tipped her head, and folded her arms over her ribs. "Will you answer a yes or no question with a simple yes or no?"

"Why?"

"And you flunk the exam," sighed Lorelai, angry and mournful and plain exhausted. "I'll give you a minute to catch up and process and all that."

She fixed her eyes on her wristwatch. She mentally counted to two hundred in the time it took the watch to tick off sixty seconds.

When she looked at Luke, he was forcibly unfisting his hands. "Okay. Good point. I can answer a yes or no question by saying yes or no."

"Did you bribe Michel to get in?"

"No. He wasn't out there."

Lorelai's eyebrows quirked up in surprise. "Huh. Well, he lives, and he stays employed, hurray for Michel."

"Can I sit?"

She nodded to the couch.

He sat, directly on his ball cap, and squirmed it out from under himself with a slightly pained grimace. "Thanks. It's just. I don't. I..."

Lorelai dredged up a few last particles of courage and patience. "Luke, I know I wasn't waving pom-poms. I have Rory on the brain. Missing her, and taking pictures, and how great it was when she needed me _every_ day. Or ten times an hour." She cradled an imaginary infant. "She was so tiny and so happy to listen to my heart beat, that was all she needed sometimes to fall asleep, and I actually wasn't thinking about the baby I lost."

"We lost," gritted Luke.

"It didn't feel like it, Luke," she cried passionately. "Where was all this follow-Lorelai-to-talk stuff then?"

His eyes had somehow paled, as if he'd been turned to ice on the inside. "I…" left his mouth, and was followed by nothingness.

"Yeah. You," said Lorelai angrily, distantly aware she needed to calm down but unable to do so. " _You_. I got notes, but you were dating your kid's swim coach! I get phone calls, well, what're you doing that I don't know? Right, getting family portraits with Anna and April! You mention Kirk's latest jam obsession, but not _that_?"

"I can't tell you _everything_!"

With a speed and precision worthy of Paris in a fencing match, Lorelai countered, "When it's _April_."

"Uh," said Luke. He was pale, then flushed, and finally a sort of mottled color Lorelai couldn't quite place, but she knew when she looked that way, she wanted to disappear from the planet.

Lorelai stood, and yanked on his flannel, forcing Luke to his feet. "Uh? Uh? That is not an answer! It isn't even a word! _Words, Luke, because your actions are still telling me I'm not special to you!_ "

She shook, hating the waste of her time and her hopes, her energy and emotion.

"I, you, we're special! You're special! I just, I... April... With... And..."

"Come back when you learn to talk," growled Lorelai, and propelled the man to his feet. "Dammit, Luke, the rules have to apply to both of us or _they aren't rules and we're not an us_!"

"Lorelai," he said, and fell silent. He reached for her. She recoiled, eyes in slits.

Michel strolled into her office as if he owned the inn. "You are disturbing my work," he complained, and cocked an eyebrow at Luke. "It makes my life much easier if she is not upset."

Frustration pitched Lorelai's voice shrill and high. "Michel, stop eavesdropping!"

"It is how I learn things," said Michel casually and cocked an eyebrow at Luke. "Begone, greasy food pimp."

Luke flushed bright red. "Watch it!"

For reply, Michel made a uniquely French noise of dismissive contempt.

"Lorelai," said Luke, and her heart twisted around itself. He sounded miserable. The wounded knight in tattered flannel.

He did not, however, sound _apologetic_. He didn't sound as if he had an explanation for why formal portraits with his daughter were not to be mentioned to her. They were _photographs_. She told him about a cute pair of shoes she'd been unable to afford, for the love of all chocolate.

 _"Lorelai."_

"We keep ending up in this place," she said heavily.

"I don't want to," said Luke in a cracked voice. "It's... The thing with April... All the custody and Anna and April and... It's not... I don't know how to talk about it to you."

"But you can tell Lane or Kirk," sighed Lorelai. Tears splashed down her face, surprising her. "Will I ever know?" she asked, sincerely curious under her weariness. "Why? Will I ever know why you keep saying you love me and keep acting like you don't? Can't you tell me whatever it is that means I can't be part of your life?"

From the way Luke inhaled, put a hand out, he felt as if he'd been stabbed. Lorelai dully waited for an answer, or a departure.

He left, red-faced, vein throbbing. While he walked on two legs, he seemed hunched, crouched in pain. She understood the feeling too well.

"Go home," said Michel immediately. He opened the proper drawer and handed over the macaron box. "You are useless here."

She smiled at him and kissed his cheek. He sputtered indignantly. "Thanks, Michel, and yes, this means you can have an extra day off."

"But of course." He wiped his cheek with a silk square.

GG GG GG

Richard Gilmore adjusted his bow tie (a cheery gold color with tiny red oak leaves on it), and nodded to Miss Cartman. "Thank you for agreeing to linger despite the change of routine. I must seem interfering and ridiculous."

"You're a dad," shrugged Miss Cartman, tweaking the arrangement of a salad fork. "There we go. Dinner for three, no alcohol, and if I hear raised voices, I offer the next of five courses."

He grinned to himself, but was outwardly expressionless. "Thank God for five-course dinners. Soup?"

"Nutmeg-butternut squash."

"Interesting. Appetizer?"

"Apple-marinated chicken breast with herb sauce, sorry, no, that's the entrée, with roasted potatoes." Miss Cartman blushed. "I'm thinking ahead of myself. I apologize. The appetizer will be bread rounds topped by toasted goat cheese and walnuts. The salad is mixed dark greens, with roasted red bell pepper dressing. And if you make it that far…"

Richard chuckled. "Yes, _if_ , indeed. Yalta's organizers had it quite easy by comparison."

"Dessert will be fresh yogurt topped in honey and dried cranberries and a bit of sweet cherry juice."

"That all sounds very healthy," remarked Richard, "as well as suspiciously tasty. I'm not certain I see the, ah, thematic connection?"

"Seasonal butternut squash, lightly spiced, before a salty-savory nut and cheese on bread, since nuts ripen in autumn. The salad is fairly bland but the roasted peppers give some warm flavor, if that makes sense?"

"Yes and no," said Richard encouragingly. "The rest?"

"Apples, which are seasonal, with potatoes, also traditionally harvested near this time of year, and as it happens, apples and potatoes have been cooked together, usually with onions, for a main course, at my grandmother's house."

"That leaves us with the yogurt, and I think I can understand cranberries for myself. I see. I am nervous."

The _non sequitur_ did not faze Miss Cartman. "You're negotiating an emotional minefield. It's understandable. I'll be in your kitchen, good luck."

He nodded genially at her. He practiced measured, calm breathing. He wondered if his daughter would forgive him for this ambush.

He decided she would. Eventually. Maybe. Rory said she would.

"Oh dear," he said anxiously as the doorbell chimed. He wiped his hands covertly on his trousers, ridding his palms of nervous sweat.

He opened the door.

A mannequin-stiff, necktie-wearing Luke Danes said, "Okay, you sent a car to drive me here. For supper. Am I going to end up floating in a river?"

"Come in, Luke, and I did that as a, ah, necessary tactic in my grand strategy."

The man was safely inside the house, or he might have run. "Lorelai's coming," he breathed. "You lied."

"And here she is," beamed Richard as headlights flashed up the driveway. "Go, sit!"

"I'm not ready for this!" yipped Luke Danes. "I'm not ready to..."

"My boy," snapped Richard, dropping his congenial façade, " _become_ ready. I maintain sufficient compassion for your situation to not have you, as you implied, swim with the fishes, but _do not try me_."

Luke whistled a low indecisive note, then walked into the dining room.

"How on earth did Emily do this without falling to bits?" wondered Richard aloud, then welcomed his daughter with a hug. "Lorelai! My goodness, you look hungry, let's go to the dining room."

Half a dozen heartbeats later, his daughter stared at him with a look he remembered Trix giving him. "Dad, what… Oh, no. Dad. You said you wanted to cheer me up, not ambush me!"

Luke said uneasily, "Hey."

Lorelai's feet moved.

" _Sit_!" thundered Richard.

Both sat. Richard sat. He smiled thinly.

Miss Cartman entered with a tray of bowls, each holding soup. She filled the water glasses and retreated.

"It's orange," objected Luke.

"It's squash," said Lorelai irritably. "Vegetable. You can cope."

"It looks like gravy."

Lorelai rolled her eyes, spooned some up and sighed. "It's like liquid pumpkin pie."

"Quite," agreed Richard.

Luke took one mouthful, and shook his head.

Richard wished he'd arranged with Miss Cartman to break silences. It seemed shouting would be his least worry.

"Very well, let me break the stalemate," he declared when it was obvious the soup course was done, and he clanked his spoon on his bowl rather loudly in hopes of Miss Cartman understanding her cue and her role. "Everything on this menu is to the standards of my cardiologist, Luke, you needn't worry for your innards. As for this mess the two of you continue to create…"

Miss Cartman whisked in with a tray bearing the appetizers, and vanished with the bowls.

Lorelai bit into the appetizer before her. "I have to get this for Sookie. Dad, he's had years to talk to me, I keep asking what it is that makes this all _this_. Why it's like he can't let April and me be in the same _universe_!"

"Not everyone can talk on command!" yelped Luke. "And that stuff's too salty to be healthy."

Richard had managed two bites of his appetizer (unique, he concluded) before Miss Cartman replaced appetizers with salads. At commendable lightning speed.

"Oh my God, Luke, it's been _two years_ since you found out about April, and I've spent, what? Less than _two hours_ around her, not counting her birthday party, which I don't, because it was her party, not normal everyday stuff!"

The kitchen door popped open. Richard shook his head. Miss Cartman discreetly slipped out of view, leaving him to have salad in relative peace.

The hurt in his daughter's eyes, and the stony fear in Luke's, clarified much for Richard. He boomed, " _Enough_! Luke, let me translate this for you. If she is not good enough to know your daughter, then she is not good enough for _you_."

Lorelai sob-hiccupped through her napkin, "Dad. That's scary mind-reading."

"Well, why not tell me she thinks that?" Luke demanded loudly, and smacked the table.

Reminded of Emily, Richard growled majestically, "You are in no place to chastise others for reticence!"

Lorelai offered, "Don't throw stones, you live in a glass house, too."

Luke snapped nastily, "I know what his words meant, I'm processing."

"No," said Lorelai and Richard in unison. She blinked, and let him continue, "You are trying to find an excuse. There is quite a difference."

Luke's flush deepened to cranberry. "I don't have to listen to…"

"Walk out of this," warned Richard softly, "and you will never find insurance again. You will discover food inspectors every day. You will possibly be audited every year for a decade. If you have valid reasons, then I will respect those. This balderdash, however, is contemptible, and I will ruin you for the mere pleasure of doing so."

Lorelai shrank as Richard turned to her.

"Yes, Lorelai, you have your fault in this," said Richard idly, patting her white-knuckled hand. "I think the greatest one is thinking that this man respects you."

He said it to test Luke, not hurt his child, but Lorelai flinched as if kicked in the stomach. "Again with the spooky telepathy," she tried to joke, and turned her head away from him, hiding her face behind her hair. He knew this meant she was trying not to cry, and failing. It scorched his heart.

"Well?" challenged Richard of Luke.

The other man gesticulated violently. "I respect the hell out of her! She's, what she's done, had to do, and…"

"Then you respect her enough to tell her the truth? Why you cannot commit and remain committed to your relationship? She knows _all_ your reasons?"

"I've told her everything!" growled Luke.

"All of everything?" probed Richard delicately, and this time allowed Miss Cartman to clear the table. She didn't bring the entrée. She had remarkably good instincts on the likelihood of it being eaten, he reflected.

"Not all," said Lorelai in a tiny, limping voice. "I can tell. He sounded like that… After April. When he wasn't telling me about her. When he told me all these reasons I couldn't be near her. When he said he wasn't the lucky guy. I'm too much of a screw-up, that's all it means, Dad. I don't _deserve_ to know."

Richard turned on Luke with the wrath of a Gilmore derided, and his tirade dissipated mid-thought.

Luke's complexion had gone ashen, and he was hanging onto the table as if it alone anchored him to the planet.

"No," whispered Luke Danes. " _No_."

Deciding to chance it, Richard tapped a bit of flatware against his water glass. Miss Cartman came in a few minutes later with the entrée, but only for him. She raised her eyebrows. He shrugged, so to speak, with his own. The silence was endurably painful, not dangerous, as far as he could tell.

She refilled his water glass in order to murmur by his ear, "I've chocolate mousse in reserve, Mr. Gilmore."

"Thank you, Miss Cartman," he said at a normal volume. "That sounds excellent. And some green tea, I think, for all of us, with dessert."

"Of course, Mr. Gilmore."

He enjoyed his entrée. He left room for dessert by skimping himself on the roasted potatoes. His head knew he'd have the yogurt, but his stomach continued to hope for chocolate mousse. If that wasn't a metaphor for life, he mused, then nothing was.

His musings were broken by speech.

"It's not about what you deserve," said Luke in a coffin-wood tone. "It's _sick_." He ran his hands over his head, down his trouser legs. His breathing came heavy and frantic. "You want to know, okay, here it is… I act like I don't want you back because you'll always know. You'll always know I'm the guy who _hurt_ you like that. You'll always know what I did. What I'm _not_. I can't stand facing you, okay? I made a big speech about lying and that's all I did, and I can't stand it, okay? You, April, same place, I can't... There's no way to pretend I... I'm too… I'm too _ashamed!_ " Luke shuddered and pounded his leg with a fisted hand. "And it's... I'm _ashamed_! _I'm ashamed!_ "

The words sounded torn from him, blood-laden. Richard almost told him to stop, then quietly took his plate and walked into the kitchen.

Miss Cartman whispered urgently, "Mousse? Police?"

He sat at the breakfast bar he never used. "Spy on them for a few minutes, please. If they hug, then yogurt for three. If they do not, then mousse, for two."

"That makes sense," said Miss Cartman, and quietly peeped out the kitchen door.

Richard reached out to complete eating his appetizer, since it was now calm enough to do so without interruption. When he'd finished, Miss Cartman smiled dazzlingly and said, "Yogurt!"

"Thank God," said Richard, and went out to join them for dessert.

GG GG GG

AN: I based Luke in this fic largely on the fact my husband said, "Guys don't get ashamed, they get angry and argue they didn't do anything wrong." A typical human behavior, in other words. My husband watches the show with me solely to heckle it, I should mention. *sigh*

If you think being ashamed of yourself can't screw you up and your whole world? Consider: Luke's ashamed his kid had to find him; ashamed he wasn't told he was a dad; ashamed he stalled on telling Lorelai; ashamed he cut her off; ashamed he got angry and stupid…. And everything that happened in this fic, too! Now, imagine you couldn't be let near your kid, your own actions are part of that (even if unintentionally), and you keep stalling on owning up that perceived shame to your future wife, adding more shame onto it by not being honest... Granted, my psychologist pal says Luke's motive for that whole S6 mess was misdirected anger, but I figure if you misdirect anger, you can be ashamed of doing so. Thus, till Luke rips that truth out of himself? He can't get "unstuck". It made sense when I wrote it.


	28. Chapter 28

Disclaimer: Anything you recognize isn't mine.

AN: Time jump ahead! Two months. It's in the fic, but I'm being careful.  
POSTED DAY EARLY DUE TO FAMILY MEDICAL ISSUE.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

Emily Gilmore hated echoes.

Her voice echoed.

Emily Gilmore disliked her aging reflection.

Her home was full of mirroring surfaces. Black glass, bright metal.

Emily Gilmore despised banality.

The mansion was full of simplistic shapes that could, quite honestly, be bought at some department store.

She sat in bed, with her brightest emerald green silk pajamas on, and a breakfast tray on the table, with four magazines in front of her. One was about beautiful houses, and another about gardens, and the third about interiors and designs. The fourth was French _Vogue_ , because Emily believed in balance and inspiration.

Using tasteful sticky-backed note slips, she marked advertisements, jotting ideas on those note slips, until her phone chimed a reminder.

She had one hour until her hair appointment.

Sighing, she padded to the shower, an expansive chamber with built-in benches and niches with bare white tiles and slate-blue towels. It struck her as frustratingly boring, and when she was done washing, drying, dressing, and applying cosmetics, she studied the lipsticks in her make-up case. She chose a pink she rarely used, walked to the bathroom, and with bold looping movements, drew a four-petaled flower on the glass shower door. The violence of her action wore the lipstick to nothing in moments.

"Better," she concluded with a tiny smile, and tossed her head before she tugged her tweed jacket straight and sauntered out to her car.

At a stop light, she pressed a few buttons on her phone.

"Dominick," she trilled when someone answered. "It's Emily Gilmore, I have a marvelous project for you. Oh no, I adore the Art Deco, of course, but wouldn't it be splendid to accessorize it with plush and luxurious fabrics? I saw a _delightful_ Moroccan rug with the most _elegant_ design, and suddenly it popped into my head. Think of it! Yes, yes, exactly, hand-woven fabrics and raw silks!" She glanced up, as traffic began to move. "Yes, I'm quite busy today but tomorrow? Excellent!"

She set down the phone, and returned her attention to driving. Now she had a project. In the spring, she could focus on the garden. For now, she could fill the mornings for at least three months. The house would be full of noise. There would be comings and goings every day but Sundays.

Her breath came easier, knowing that.

GG GG GG

Luke's heart raced as he checked his reflection. It was the same, yet different. That little inner-Luke didn't accuse him out of his own eyes. Some of the lines of the face were deeper, and some more relaxed. A hardness came into his gaze, behind his eyes, and he recognized it as that long-time friend-foe. The Great Wall of Luke, Lorelai had jokingly dubbed it once.

She would see it. Know it.

"Time to go all in, Butch," he told his reflection quietly, and lightly shook out his shoulders and arms to rid them of building tension. "She said yes to a date. No standing still till it's too late, no running when it _is_ too late. Gotta walk. Together. Or get off the road."

His reflection agreed this was all true, and seemed to find no reason to scold him. Luke wet his lips nervously, smoothed his hands over the pullover sweater. Lorelai had bought it for him, years ago, and it still seemed classic and perfect.

He remembered her hurt, when Anna bought him luggage, and thought of Rachel, coming across Lorelai dressing him in the diner. Rachel had known then, he suspected, that their chance had gone when she last did. Lorelai must have seen that luggage, he cringed inwardly, as his repudiation of her and their past, their future.

If Christopher bought her luggage, he'd have…

His stomach flipped. _I can't. She knows how awful I can be. She'll run. She did run. But we crawled back. I'm..._

"Dad!"

He left the bathroom, more or less terrified.

April shook her head. "And you complain about how much time I take. Okay, you have money and your phone?"

He smiled faintly, to think he'd aged into an era where you didn't take money for a phone call, but had a phone in your pocket. "Yes, I do, and you need to get downstairs, you know how your mom is if you're not on the sidewalk five minutes early."

April sighed, huffed, rolled her eyes, and not-quite-stomped a foot. "Ugh. Parents!" she growled, put on her winter jacket, and flung this year's overloaded schoolbag across her back. "Geez. I just wanted to see you on the big day."

"No pressure," mumbled Luke, discovering he missed wearing blue jeans. It felt wrong to wipe his sweaty hands on the dressy trousers. He hugged her impulsively, kissed her forehead. "Thanks, kiddo. Your old man's…"

"Yeah, I know, it's kinda not an incentive to date," replied April, and preceded him out of the apartment. "Seriously, if it doesn't get easier when you're older, why bother? Practice obviously isn't helping anyone."

"Keep thinking that," he advised sternly, hopefully, and triple-checked his face for stubble. He was coming to enjoy a clean-shaven face. It showed he could look at himself in the mirror. "Till you're fifty."

It had taken two months to get from the supper at Richard Gilmore's, to a supper on their own, in a dating context. Their phone calls had become daily, and conversations had been intense, long, rambling, casual, virtually every word in Jess's abandoned copy of _Roget's Thesaurus_. That hadn't made it _easy_ to ask her.

Yet she hadn't hesitated to say yes.

That meant a lot. No doubts it was a date. No wondering what line was going to be crossed. No confusion. Stark terror, yes, but not a bit of confusion.

He waited with April until Anna picked her up, violet shadows around Anna's eyes. Her mother's condition was the kind Luke dreaded, a slow decline into decrepitude and helplessness. According to April, it was made worse by her grandmother's relentless criticism of Anna's life, while Anna was housing her at no cost. Not even Anna could argue against the diner apartment as a quieter study venue, although Luke knew she'd wanted to.

He banished his ex from his thoughts. He got into his truck. It was a very big car, in his opinion, and smelled faintly of the air freshener April insisted he needed, lest her friends' noses be offended.

"We're not starting over," he told himself firmly, and loudly. "We never ended. Not really. No, that's wrong. We're… Crap, I shoulda had Jess write me something to say!"

Finally, he was at Lorelai's house, and knocked on the scarlet door.

She opened it immediately, hand dropping in a way that told him she'd fastened an earring a heartbeat before. Her dress was a sort of purplish color, her hair loose, and he made a noise that might have been "Wow" if he'd been able to breathe.

"I, you, uh, _whoa_ ," he said at last.

She blushed. "That's a good compliment. Thank you. You look very handsome, and I'm not only saying that because you were nice to me."

He relaxed all at once, warming inside and out. "Uh. Thanks. So. Oh, here," he blurted, and grabbed her coat sleeve to help her slide into the gray wool. "Okay, here's the trust exercise part I warned you about. April picked the restaurant."

"Why would that be… Ooooohhhh," comprehended Lorelai, eyes dancing. "She's on her vegan kick."

As she locked her door behind her, he admitted ruefully, "Yeah. There's this supplemental drink she uses, to help with nutrients. What's the point if you have to buy this expensive powder that smells like lawn clippings and gym socks?"

By that last, he had helped her into the truck, and Lorelai burst into a laugh. "Less than sixty seconds to full rant!"

"Sort of a rant," he modified, walked around, got in, and re-started the engine. "The full rant was when she asked me to make a bean burger for her with something called _spirulina_. Who eats that?"

There was a strange hesitation in the air between them. Lorelai exhaled out a curt, "Thank you for telling me."

"About algae?"

"April," she whispered. "I don't want to take it for granted."

They were at a stop light, allowing him to reach over and touch her hand with his, a brief tap of reassurance. "Hey. I'm still… Y'know. Ashamed. Of what. Who. All that. But you were right."

He waited for banter, quips, distracting chatter. She offered none, but encouraged him to continue with a tiny bob of her head.

"When you said it's nothing to be ashamed of. That Anna didn't tell me about April." He cleared his throat, his face growing hot. "What you said, about how Rory's dad was the one who needed to be ashamed, he knew all along and… Well, it helped. Meant a lot more from you than Liz, for some reason." He grinned as he spoke. "Maybe because Liz is… Well, she's _Liz._ She was telling me we found our wormhole."

Lorelai's forehead and nose scrunched up. "Our wormhole? Did you ask what that means?"

"Hell no. Some things I don't want to know."

A few moments later, they were at the appointed restaurant, a tiny-looking place with a discreet sign reading _Nude Food_.*

"Oh God," snickered Lorelai, and begged, "I have to take a picture for Rory, please?!"

"At least they didn't spell it F-U-D-E," said Luke weakly. He thought April was on his side. He'd ground her until thirty for this. "Yeah. Picture. Rory."

Lorelai took two snapshots with her phone, squared her shoulders. "About the internet, Luke… Menus listed online is a thing."

"Yeah," he conceded. "Might not be a bad idea if I ever get a website."

"You don't have a website? With a hotlink from the homepage for the local chamber of commerce and state tourism bureau? I have to set you up with the guy who did ours, we've had three events from the online exposure, y'know, venues in quaint Connecticut," Lorelai enthused, which got them in the door, and through the tedium of waiting for the hostess to notice their existence.

"We found Michel's long-lost twin sister," muttered Luke when the young woman's accented voice implied infinite boredom and disgust at her plebian job.

"I'm sneaking a picture, seriously," whispered Lorelai in return. "No way they're not related. They have the same pouty-mouth thing."

Their table was for two, softly lit by dangling lamp, and the prints on the walls were all of food plants, artistically rendered. Luke wondered if April set this up as some test. If they could survive a vegan dinner, then… Realistically, then they'd never return, and he'd make April's next nutrient shake with hot vanilla milk in revenge.

According to the menu, there were three courses. An appetizer-soup-or-salad; an entrée; a dessert. A quick look reassured Luke immensely. He prepared to tell Lorelai what a few items were.

"Oh, quinoa," she said with a tiny grin. "Hah, I told Sookie people really eat it. But I'm not going vegetarian, so… I think I'll have the mixed greens, then the filet mignon, and maybe we can split a dessert?"

Luke choked up.

He covered his eyes with his hand.

From across the table, he heard a firm, "Luke. Eating healthy is a good thing, no matter why I'm doing it, right?"

He nodded, still hiding his eyes.

Her fingers glided over his, and tugged them down.

She stared at him, steady and sober and kind.

"Right," he said, and smiled warmly. "Yeah. And beef's full of bad things."

Her eyes glinted mischievously. "What're you getting, then, Mr. Health Expert?"

"Tomato bisque and, uh, well, the uh…" He reddened. "Okay, fine, filet mignon."

They shared a grin.

"I'm not splitting a 'chocolate volcano cake' for dessert," he warned. "They've got fruit tarts."

"Well, I'm not splitting something made with rhubarb, because I really can't stand it, even with sugar and strawberries, so I guess I'm having a lot of cake. I thought you'd get the fish."

"Yeah, about fish," he said uncomfortably, and leaned back, waiting for the server to take their orders. "It's salmon. If I eat the salmon, I'm ruining the world."

She giggled. He'd missed that sound. "Oh no. You got guilted. I wasn't allowed to _look_ at bacon for about three years after Rory first read _Charlotte's Web_."

He laughed, and felt a happy thrill. They really could talk the same in person as on the phone, and be at ease, and maybe, just maybe, _all in_ really was about joy instead of fear.

GG GG GG

AN: * _Nude Fude_ was the name of a real restaurant that offered, in fact, very little food without a lot covering it, and the only vegetarian option was if you picked the weird bits out of the salad. The idea 'nude food' crops up as a slogan for anti-waste, anti-processed-foods, and many other causes, and I don't own the idea of it, the names, or anything else. The real _Nude Fude_ was not in Connecticut, but I figured it'd sound ominous and then surprise the Ls. The real one certainly surprised me and my husband. Never assume a turnip on the sign means vegetables inside, that's all I'm saying.

EB White's book _Charlotte's Web_ is, to my knowledge, not linked to any decline in the consumption of bacon. Nor any decline in spider-smashing. Hmm.


	29. Chapter 29

Disclaimer: Theirs. Never mine. No profits. Et cetera.

AN: Final updates of last chapters are early again. Just in case I end up too busy to keep my daily post promise. So, thank you for faves, raves, hates, likes, follows, reads, and support. They've been amazing, as have you. Thank you.

Clarifying AN: This is just a random winter town event. I don't name it anything because, well, it's just a winter event where people remember things and talk and stuff. I know I confused and upset people, for which I apologize. The week I uploaded the last several chapters of this story way back when, I was waiting to learn if my mother was going to survive her heart problem, and I reacted poorly to a lot of things. That said, again, I didn't name this any particular winter event simply because this is Stars Hollow. We can invent events for fanfic whenever our plots require. The show did!

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

It seemed strange that, two years ago, Lorelai had been ready to marry the man whose hand she now held as they wandered the winter festival. It was even odder to think of the photograph from many years before that, capturing the magic they had not trusted.

Now, she was quietly overjoyed to hold hands, knowing Luke would not complain and she would not have to feel needy. It was simply a touch, a way to connect, to be together.

Now, she understood so much more about what drove him, and herself, and _them_. Whatever they _had been_ , this was what they were _now_ , and the lack of giddiness was a relief.

Luke's behavior showed her that he felt the same. He was not flirting or ranting or trying to hide their joined fingers. It was the greatest sign of growing trust she could find, other than the fact he discussed April with her as matter-of-factly as she'd always mentioned Rory.

Gratitude swelled in her chest. Apropos of nothing, everything, she said, "Thanks. For not giving up on me. It's not easy."

"Hey," he scolded gently, "I gave you a lot of reasons to give up, I'm thanking _you_."

Pensive, Lorelai sang quietly, "Take me as I am, you may have to be a better man…"

"Hey," Luke cut her off. "I hate that song. You're not that word."

"You got a Meredith Brooks reference?" said Lorelai in shock. She and Sookie had sung it as a sort of anthem, back in the day, but it wasn't something she thought Luke would recognize.

"Yes, and you're _everything_ in between, not _nothing_ ," said Luke firmly.

Her heart didn't flutter and swell. It glowed. That was far better. "Thank you, and back at ya."

"Uh, thanks." He adjusted his blue ball cap so the bill faced front. "This is weird. Good weird. But weird. Like, old-new but good-new, with the good old, not the bad old. Great, I'm babbling."

"How did you know the song?" asked Lorelai to save him from himself, and because it was normal to ask, to wonder, and, now, to know he'd answer.

"Had a waitress for three months, she sang that damn song under her breath every shift. I couldn't wait to fire her."

"For a song?" queried Lorelai, puzzled.

"Every day. Three months. Then she gave me a perfect excuse." He grinned down at her, and she smiled in return, genuine and natural. "Caught her smoking in the restroom. Six days a week for three months, that damn song. Gah."

They wandered past carolers, and Miss Patty at the punch bowl. Luke squeezed her hand a little when they passed a certain bench, and she lightly squeezed back.

"Lorelai. Can I ask something?"

"Sure," she said, confident that she could answer truthfully, that his freeing his hand meant nothing more than… Luke wanted his hand back for a moment.

He fiddled with his coat zipper. "Uh. Why'd you. Uh. Y'know. I know we both screwed up, but… Okay, why did you forgive me?"

"Shame," she said earnestly, capturing his fidgety hands and holding both in hers, "is something I know a lot about, Luke. A lot. Earned or not. So yeah, once you explained about it being shame, a lot made sense and fell into place. The insecurity thing, too, yeah, but the shame thing especially. Guilt is what you do, shame is about who you are." She gave him a stern look. "And, buddy, when you got your own kid yelling at you about that, in concert with Paris Geller, you never forget the difference."

Luke grinned briefly, warmly. "Yeah, you told me about the Thanksgiving dinner fireworks." The mirth evaporated, replaced by that hangdog, turned-inward look she now recognized for what it was, and not what she'd thought for so many years. "It took me too long to realize. If I'd…"

She dropped his hands, and tapped his hat bill. "Hey. New rules, remember? No putting ourselves down over what-if stuff."

Luke's smile flashed relaxed, his eyes easing. "Whatever you say, crazy lady."

Lorelai digested the old nickname. She couldn't bring herself to call him _Burger Boy_ , and settled for, "But good-crazy, right, Butch?"

"Good," he confirmed, and for some reason he blushed. Lorelai peered at him, uncomprehending, until he said, "Just good to hear you call me that again."

She nodded, then commented on Rory's upcoming holiday visit, and what April wanted for Christmas. "Other than peace on earth, or at least in Woodbridge," amended Lorelai. "Realistically, is it okay for me to get her something? We did pretty good with lunch the other day, and when you let me come shopping with the two of you…"

She bit back the rest of the sentence, regretting the way she'd phrased it.

Luke didn't take offense, his eyes showing that he understood her worries, and didn't share them. "I asked you to come, I'm hopeless at the mall, and yeah, get her something. Small, though, or Anna'll flip out. I'm stuck, got advice?"

"Maybe, no promises it's good," replied Lorelai, astonished anew at how easily they spoke of his daughter. "You can't buy her NASA, they're not for sale."

Luke laughed, but with a grimace. "Close. There's a school trip, optional, to the big air and space museum in DC, it'd be about five hundred bucks to cover…"

"Good one!" cheered Lorelai.

"Or pay for a home nurse for her grandmother for a week, so she and Anna can go on vacation, just the two of them, get away from all that."

She hugged him, tears in her eyes.

"Home nurse wins?" he squawked. "Ribcage. Need that."

"That is beyond amazing wonderful and thoughtful," gushed Lorelai, nuzzling a little to absorb the smell of him, minus Anna-vanilla. He only dropped April off at the Nardini house, avoiding the shop and Anna. He had never said as much to her. April had mentioned it was making life easier for her, since she could then spend time right away with her grandma, and avoid squabbles with Anna for a few more hours. They'd been at the mall, not even holding hands, and he had said simply that he didn't like all that vanilla smell on him. When he offered his hand to her, as they rose from the food court table, he hadn't released it. She'd considered, then curled her fingers around his in return. April had sniggered, which in the old days meant Luke would have dropped her hand. That day he told April archly that linked hands were like very safe sex, in _public,_ and his frog-dissecting daughter had turned green. Lorelai still felt her face grow hot at his description.

She dropped back from the bear hug, and resumed walking quickly, before anyone could fuss, herself included.

"Yeah, well, it's on her list," Luke admitted. "She misses the days it was her and Anna, and it made me think of you and Rory, and I figured you'd know which was better. So, I pay for some home nurse and they go have mom-kid time?"

"Perfect!" enthused Lorelai, and bumped him with her hip. "Look at you, being all gift-giving and checking lists and stuff."

"What's Rory want?" he asked, casually re-taking her hand.

"I'm getting her one of those little travel-size comfort-neck-whatevers," said Lorelai, describing a horseshoe shape in the air with her free hand. "And a two-cup-size travel coffeemaker. You could maybe supply the coffee?"

He nodded, eyes wrapping her in a hug. "Yeah. I can do that."

"Thank you, she'll…" Lorelai came to an abrupt halt. Her smile broadened. "Listen!"

"To what? Kirk selling egg nog?" He glanced around the square, at the tables and vendors and bonfire, in confusion.

"Smell," she whispered, and inhaled deep. "It's gonna snow."

"I'd tell you about the weather forecast but I'd be wasting my breath."

"Yep. It's gonna snow, Luke. On Firelight Festival." She bounced giddily in place. She felt something in her singing a note of sheer delight. "My nose knows! Snow!"

Lorelai lifted her head, drawing the cold air into her, smiling. She wanted to hug the world.

Luke kissed her.

Moonlight and lightning combined, she thought whimsically when the kiss ended. It had been well over a year since they'd last kissed, and much longer than that since she felt at ease with him enough to not wonder _was that okay?_ Yet the silver-soft dazzle-heat remained, without being at all mundane.

"No coffee taste anymore," he said very softly, "but still you."

Lorelai touched her fingertips to his lips, and pointed. "Look."

He looked up, as directed.

Little white bits of fluff were falling.

She whispered, forehead pressed to his, "Magic happens when it snows."

They breathed in each other's air. There were still words, and important ones, but she _knew_ they would be said, and that was what mattered.

GG GG GG

Rory squealed like a little girl again, warming Richard's heart. "It's a Kindle! Oh my God, you got me a Kindle! They sold out! Before I knew they were on sale! Grandpa!" She flung herself at him, in a huge hug that he happily accepted. "I have to get books! And download them! And read the instructions! I can take as many books as I want and it won't weigh a hundred pounds!"

When she let him breathe, Richard boomed out a laughing, "You're welcome, and there is a gift card…"

Rory whooped and pounced on the tiny packet.

"…And they claim to have over 50,000 books ready for download," Richard concluded.

"Portable. Library." Rory cradled her new toy, crooning. "Oh, books without smell, sad! Books without bulk, happy!"

"And she's in Rory-Land," chortled Lorelai, smiling at her father. "Thanks, on her behalf, Dad. Let me guess, she can buy a hundred books?"

"Or thereabouts, yes," agreed Richard amiably. "Now, open your gift, April."

He had not been surprised that Luke would join them at Lorelai's little home for a few presents and a Sookie-made lunch to be delivered at one o'clock. What he hadn't expected, and nor had Lorelai, was that Luke's daughter would appear. When Lorelai phoned him that morning, whispering in shock that Luke called to ask about April spending the day with him because she had a week with her mother, Richard had simply decided to act as if he'd been prepared. It was how it was done.

Also, he was quite fortunate in that he'd had a gift he wasn't certain was right for either Lorelai or Rory, and he'd only needed to scribble April's name on the tag, bring it along.

"You really didn't," said Luke and April in chorus.

Richard and Lorelai grinned identically.

April reddened. "I'm completely intruding, they had to get me things," she muttered. "I _can_ stay alone. I'm gonna be fifteen in a few months."

"Alone on Christmas?!" gasped Lorelai, feigning a partial faint. "Never! Go on, open it!"

Squirming, April opened the small box from Richard. Her eyes rounded, and her mouth dropped open. "Oh," she breathed. "Thank you, Mr. Gilmore!"

It was a rather silly little thing, in Richard's opinion, a set of pens that glowed different colors in the dark. He'd bought it on a whim. Glowing in the dark said _Lorelai_ , but pens said _Rory_ , after all.

"Finally," said Luke, as only a parent could. "No more losing the damn things!"

"So cool! I wonder if they used phosphorescence?" Immediately April began squinting at the back of the box. "Thank you! Wow, Mom couldn't find these!"

"Santa Gilmore knows the best elves," said Lorelai fondly, and tapped her ears. "Snowflake earrings. I've only wanted a set since, oh, forever."

"Yes, yes, that's enough," flustered Richard, embarrassed. "Luke, I was told you prefer pragmatic gifts."

Luke studied the box he'd unwrapped. His shoulders shook. He snorted air in, out, and finally handed the item to Lorelai, and hid his face in his hands, making odd noises.

"If all else fails," drawled Richard sagely, fingertips forming a steeple, "you always have a means of communication."

Lorelai's face had turned scarlet as her shutters. Her white Christmas sweater with its sparkling silver threads made a striking contrast. She held up, for April and Rory to see, a boxed set of notecards. The fronts bore four different sayings. One stack read, _I'm Sorry_. Another read, _Will flowers help?_ The third said, _You're right, but I won't admit it yet_. The fourth said, _I'm right, just admit it._

Luke's suppressed laughter left Richard immune to Lorelai's glittering, angry glare. It was, he reflected, basically a _guy_ thing. Really, what else did anyone have to say in any argument?

"Your gift is in the fridge," said Lorelai, looking remarkably Trix-like for a moment. "He made you a boysenberry pie."

"Oh, that is a good gift!" boomed Richard. "I thank you very much! Now, what on earth is your dog doing in the corner?"

"I bought him a rawhide chew toy, and he's scared of it," sighed his daughter, with a resigned little grimace. "He won't come out from behind the tree. I moved the toy to the porch, but he's not budging."

"I'll get him out. We read about animal behavior in biology class," said April, and promptly sprawled on the floor, not far from where Rory was still making love noises at the Kindle.

Richard took the chance, rumbling with authority, "This time, you are comfortable. It's good to see." He put up a hand, silencing them both before either could finish drawing in breath. "Yes, yes, the mistakes, now let's move along to the fact you have plans, I'm sure."

"Keep talking, keep listening," said Lorelai and Luke, slightly out of sync.

"For the future?" persisted Richard with a pointed look at their joined hands.

"Don't let go," said Luke promptly, beating Lorelai by a few heartbeats.

"Good, good. On a more practical level? As in living arrangements, and so forth?"

Luke looked to Lorelai, dipped his head slightly. Lorelai turned to Richard, and said, "Dad, we'll take it as it comes, but I think, with all we've figured out about each other and what we're worth to each other… Well, y'know, we'll, uh, _get there_."

Richard nodded thoughtfully, and studied their interlinked fingers. The casual intimacy of it, the relaxation it brought them, reassured him more than their words. "Well, good, good."

He remembered days when Emily's hand was in his, that way. United against the world. Owned, owning, and partnered all in the same gesture. It was intensely lonely, to know he'd lost it, but relieving to see his daughter had found it. He didn't remember their hands being that gently and naturally and constantly entwined, nor the calmness between them in presence of others. Whatever their issues, they'd found ways forward, and it gratified him, for their sake.

"Dad?"

"Oh, reminiscing," he said, as if he'd not wanted to wipe at a few tears. "This reminds me a little of a few holidays with my mother, in hotels, when Trix let her hair down."

"I can't imagine that," giggled Lorelai. Her phone rang, and he saw her fingertips brush over Luke's as she stood. "And my phone is in the kitchen. Back in a sec."

He heard her talking, and leaned forward, pinning Luke in place with a glower. "Everything I see indicates that you've finally realized my daughter loves you and can be trusted. Well?"

Luke flushed, mumbling, "Uh. I, y'know. She's it. She has been for a long time, but, uh, y'know. I love her. She's my best friend." His eyes tracked Lorelai, Richard presumed, ticking back and forth in time to the patter of Lorelai's reindeer slippers on the kitchen floor. "I'm hers. That's first. The rest of it comes after. I didn't get that, before. And…" He rubbed the back of his neck, met Richard's stare squarely. "I'd have rather been together, but we got it worked out, her stuff, my stuff, _our_ stuff, and now…" He glanced at April, giggling as the dog licked her hand, then back at Richard. "I hope we have forty years together."

Richard leaned back, just as Lorelai hurried in, saying, "Great, Anthony's sick, Sookie's freaking out, we have no lunch, what do we do? I mean, I have food, but it's not Christmas dinner food."

"We're eating it on Christmas," said Luke, getting to his feet. "That makes it Christmas dinner. Show me what ya got."

Lorelai gave him a come-hither look ruined by a sharp, "Who said you're cooking?"

"Who cooks for a living?"

"You, but…"

Richard smiled in satisfaction. If they weren't married in six months, then he'd buy a hat solely to eat it.

AN: Meredith Brooks song titled "Bitch" is misquoted. It's "stronger man". The refrain includes a line "I'm your hell/I'm your dream/I'm nothing in between", to which Luke refers.

The first Kindle from Amazon came out in fall 2007 and sold out very quickly. I still have mine, though I had to wait till they were restocked in 2008 to get it.

The notecards existed, at least briefly, as a "gag" gift for grooms back in my day. The set for brides came in pink, and instead of the one about flowers, it was about sex. Figures, doesn't it?

GG GG GG


	30. Chapter 30

Disclaimer: And here at the close of the show, I reiterate… Not mine!

CHAPTER THIRTY

In the lobby of the Dragonfly Inn, Emily Gilmore straightened her skirt, and paused in preening when she heard the panicking voice of Luke Danes.

"You can't turn fifteen and be allowed in a car! Behind the wheel!"

Emily paused, incredulous. This of all days, and he was preoccupied with everything _but_ the event in question?!

"Dad. Stop freaking out. It's called _driver's education_. School. Education. Theory. Practice, in a supervised setting," came an exasperated teen female voice, which Emily presumed was Luke's daughter, April. "And it means a discount on insurance."

"It does?" A sound of paper rustling inspired Emily to peep around the corner into her daughter's office at the inn. There stood Luke, and his daughter. He wore a suit and a tie. She wore a skirt suit, her blouse matching his tie in color. It was a very nice sapphire blue. They were perusing some sort of pamphlet. "Huh," said Luke. "That's not bad. But you have a year till you're sixteen, why do it this fall? You'll have forgotten everything!"

"Oh my God," sighed April, pushing her eyeglasses up her nose, tucking her hair behind her ears. "You're getting married in, like, five minutes, and you're nervous about me driving?"

"No reason to be nervous about marrying Lorelai," said Luke with such calm that Emily envied him. She had felt that way, with Richard, once.

"Even, um, y'know, all the stuff?"

"Hey, let's focus on the _scary_ stuff, which is you driving."

The girl's voice rose plaintively. "Why are you so sure I'll crash?"

"Because you're so sure you won't!"

Emily withdrew and walked outside. It was May, a glorious month, and the walk to the ceremony site took her along a footpath to a green lawn. Barely a dozen chairs were arranged in a semi-circle around a wooden arch of sorts covered in chains of flowers. The wood had been carved with a simple fretwork pattern, interspersed with what she suspected were stylized snowflakes. It was dignified, simple, stained dark and rich, with white and pink flowers of a dozen kinds twined around it. It had a sense of newness, yet reminded her of the tatty chuppah Lorelai had in her yard for years.

"This isn't how it should be," she whispered, tears in her eyes, and she reached in her bag for tissues.

"Here," said Richard, startling her, and handed her a silk-cotton square. "I've brought spares. What isn't how it should be, Emily?"

His kindness cracked her open. Words gushed out. "No diamonds, no tiara, no white dresses, no bridesmaids, no guests, no reception in a beautiful hall with crystal chandeliers and a five-tiered cake scattered in gold dust, and, oh, Richard, how can she marry at this age, this _way_ , why bother, why not live in sin and admit…"

"Admit what?" Richard cut in sharply, quietly, and stuck her hand on his arm to steer her to a chair. A few errant petals and a scattering of golden pollen marred its seat, and he dusted it off for her with a quick snap of another handkerchief. "Admit a failure?"

Skin burning from her humiliation, and her anguish, Emily snapped, "Yes! This is not how it's done, and it's ridiculous! Then we have to traipse hither and yon…"

"To the town square, by car."

"For some disgusting barbecued grease with a side of congealed starch!"

"For an evening of celebration with live music…"

"By some band called Hip Allen!"

"Hep Alien," corrected Richard, his voice growing taut. "The menu, Emily, is green garden salad, roasted vegetables, and for those of us at the high table, chicken or beef or fish. The majority of guests can have a choice of hamburgers or similar grilled as they want, with bowls of snack foods forbidden to me, and some variety of potato and pasta salads, apparently."

Emily blinked, frowning up at her ex-husband. He was wearing a white bow tie with little blue dots on it, one she didn't recognize. "How on earth do you know all that?"

"Miss Cartman is catering the picnic for the majority of the guests, and coordinated it with the meal for those of us at the family table, in case we chose to wander about. I was told what to avoid."

Ankles crossed demurely, Emily sniffed disdainfully. "I suppose the cake will be six tiers of chocolate covered in more chocolate."

"One tier, of something Luke insists we'll all love, a spice cake with what he called perfect frosting. A long-lost family secret his sister held, apparently. The sheet cakes will be yellow or chocolate, I'm told."

His complacency infuriated her. "You're not even walking her down the aisle! How can you be…" She stopped, changed her approach. "My God, Richard, are you _paying_ for this travesty?"

"Since Lorelai didn't require money for the wedding itself, I volunteered to fund the reception food, and I believe Luke is, as tradition demands, paying for the alcohol and the band. Come now, Emily, Lorelai and Luke had one financial obstacle, and that was the food, it's little enough for me to do."

Devastated that she had only been invited, not consulted, Emily seethed, "You're insufferable!"

Richard shook his head, then smiled, whispering, "Here they are."

Rory and April appeared from seeming nowhere. Each escorted her parent to the wedding arch. Rory's blouse matched Lorelai's dress, a pink halter-neck with fluttery hem, the print subtle but still (to Emily) completely unsuitable. It was all disgraceful, in Emily's opinion, but what about this situation didn't make her glad that she alone of Hartford society had been invited? Even Lorelai's earrings and necklace seemed to be costume, hand-made, though matching each other if not anything else. The whole affair struck her as terribly shoddy.

It was not at all her dream. This was her reality, and it _hurt_.

The minister said the usual words, while April and Rory stood proudly by their respective parents. On Luke's side, a surly dark-haired young man rolled his eyes a few times, and a woman with flowers on her head squealed excitedly.

"And now, a few words from the bride and groom to each other," said the minister. "Lorelai?"

"Okay, here goes. Luke, we took a long road, but it was worth it, because…" Lorelai smiled shyly. "Even if we weren't always in the same car, we were still on the same road, and we're always going to be. So, with this ring, I thee wed, and give you my car keys."

Emily dropped her face into her hands, appalled. Richard's chuckle irked her almost as much as Rory's open, "Nice one, Mom!"

Luke grinned at the simple gold band on his hand. "Yeah. Uh. Geez. Cars. Okay. So, the thing is, April asked me about me asking you to do this, and she said that with everything that's happened and…" He coughed. "Great, whoever bet on me rambling, you win."

The dark-haired young man hooted, "Yes! Easy fifty!"

April flung him a dirty look. Emily realized it was Rory's ex-boyfriend, the hoodlum. Jeff or something.

Luke drew a deep breath, and said steadily, "You're why I'm a lucky guy. With this ring, I thee wed, and thank you for saying yes."

Lorelai hurled her arms around Luke, who kissed her far more deeply than publicly appropriate. Emily cringed. Richard cleared his throat. Luke's side of things seemed to find it fine, and whooped. Someone actually shouted, "Huzzah!"

"And on that note, they are husband and wife, they're already kissing, let's go eat," said the minister.

Everyone hugged. Squealed. Kissed. Jumped. Bounced. Danced in place. Only Emily remained still, and quiet, and seated, purse in her lap.

"Mom. Thank you for coming," said Lorelai, when the chaos calmed to mere anarchy. She looked flushed, happy, beautiful, and her smile was gentle and yet sad.

Through a small lump in her throat, Emily replied crisply, "Of course, Lorelai. You'll forgive me if I decline to stay for the picnic. I've a museum opening tonight."

Lorelai's eyes bored into hers, frighteningly perceptive. "I understand. We're glad you came. Drive carefully."

She squeezed Emily's hands in her own. It shocked Emily to feel the smooth gold band, but no engagement ring with it. Naturally, her daughter didn't have one. The whole thing had been whipped up in a month, helter-skelter, catch-as-catch-can, and the fact it was lovely was irrelevant. It was not _right_. This was not how her daughter should marry, nor when, nor whom. It was all wrong, _still all wrong_ , and nothing could make it right, not for Emily.

As the others chatted, Emily hesitated, but she had decided her course. She walked up the path, head high, proud that no one could tell her heart wept.

GG GG GG

AN: THE END!

Sad for Emily. On vows: Lorelai, obviously inspired by what she said to Luke back in S6 about just wanting to be let in the car; Luke, in part by my husband recently saying he was grateful I said yes. (EDITED: Apparently, Lorelai said the car thing to Sookie in the episode after Partings. Frankly, I was binge-watching on Netflix and the S6-7 horror blurred a bit, and I didn't re-read the scripts. Everything I work from here is just from casual memory. Whatever. She should have said it to Luke, so in my AU, she did. Discrepancy magically fixed!)

On dress: Is it the pink dress from Liz's wedding? You decide. A new, different wedding arch? Hey, Mrs. Kim sold the old chuppah to a sucker (in my head-canon, anyway). Imagine what and who you like for the big party. I ended on Emily, btw, b/c… it seemed to fit.

Incidentally, you can whip up a wedding arch pretty quickly if you know anything about carpentry, and carving. My grandfather was a master carpenter, and could hand carve a newel post, while watching a ball game, into shapes like an owl, pine cone or pineapple. Give him a power tool, and it was just a matter of him drawing onto the wood what he wanted, and zoom! You can now get trace-able patterns, by the way. Thus, if Luke can manage a chuppah, I figured he could manage a simpler arch on short notice, particularly given modern power tools and, as I noted, trace-able patterns. Fretwork and snowflakes are pretty easy compared to goats.


End file.
